


Darkness Rising

by ByTheDawn



Series: The Dark War [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByTheDawn/pseuds/ByTheDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The palace did not have dungeons, that is what Princess Emma had always been told. In a kingdom as well-ruled and peaceful as hers, dungeons were not needed. If there were no enemies to lock away in high towers or underground caverns, then there was no need for high towers, or for underground caverns. And yet, she found herself in a tunnel she had never explored, a tunnel dark and damp that led from the armoury down into the pitch black; a tunnel that led to the palace’s dungeons where she found the palace’s sole prisoner: a mysterious woman who had been down there for the past eighteen years. The only woman, perhaps, with the knowledge and power to stop the rising darkness that was threatening to plunge the Kingdom into war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU -- set in the Enchanted Forest where the Dark Curse was never successfully cast. Hints of Emma Swan / Neal Cassidy as a plot device. Thank you to my wonderful Beta [Fadingshadows](http://fadingshadows.tumblr.com/) for getting through 42k in a few days! You are amazing! <3 
> 
> Speaking of amazing! The art below was created by [stuffy0ureyeswithw0nder](http://stuffy0ureyeswithw0nder.tumblr.com), especially for this fic and I am overcome with feelings! As a writer, there is nothing better than getting assigned an artist who reads through 42k and picks out the most important detail to tell the story. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I adore it!
> 
>  

Emma had found the hatch three days ago, by accident as her accident-prone form had crashed into a displayed coat of armour while practicing her sword hand, alone in one of the all but forgotten armouries of the palace. After the dust and noise had settled, she had tried to manoeuvre the case back, but had found the sturdy wooden panel that had been revealed too interesting to pass up. Emma knew the palace was filled with hidden passages and pathways, and they had excited Emma to no end while she was growing up—especially because much of her life was filled with boredom and lessons she disliked. Throughout her youth, most of her joy had been found in passages much like the one the hatch had revealed, and Emma—as adventurous as she was by nature—had immediately relished the chance to explore a brand new one now she was older. Despite being eighteen now, Emma figured no one was ever too old for an adventure, especially when it was just stumbled upon. 

Of course, deep down, Emma knew she was too old to childishly crawl through unexplored passageways, but the monotony of the palace life was often too boring to submit to. She wanted to be out in the world, slay dragons, go on adventures, but of course she was not allowed any of that. Instead, she was paraded around her potential suitors in the hope she would fall for one of them and get married, and she rarely left the palace at all, except for very rare hunting trips. Eighteen or not, Emma had found a chance to unwind and indulge, and she was going to take it no matter what.

Excitedly, she had submerged herself in the experience of something new, and had coasted along on the high of her imminent exploration while she muddled through her never-ending etiquette lessons and the last of the banquets with King Fredrick and his court, who had stayed the longest of all royals for the festival organized in celebration of her birthday. With so much of her time accounted for, she had been forced to delay her exploration, but now the guests were gone and she would not be missed until dinner time. She had four hours to explore, and she was going to make the most of it.

Armed with a fully filled hooded oil lamp, rope—just in case—and a birch broom, she had dropped herself down into the shallow hole. She was dressed in her favourite exploratory outfit—leather riding pants, sturdy cottons shirt, leather vest, and her curly blonde hair had been covered by a forest green hood—and the adult youth was ready to discover what lay beyond the hatch that had come to occupy her every waking thought. 

The first ten minutes of slow exploration were filled mostly with spiders and rats, both of which had been conquered with her broom while she tried to quench squeals of disgust. Rats she could deal with, but she could literally feel the spiders crawling around on her back, despite the hood, and twice now, they had made her re-think this whole plan. Nothing reduced her quicker to a state of mind more befitting her ten-year-old self than spiders. Still, the allure of the slowly sloping and widening tunnel that she couldn’t even stand up straight in was too strong. There was no way she was not exploring this tunnel more—it would just take longer as she had to clear every inch of the walls and ceiling first.

She estimated half an hour to forty-five minutes had passed before she rounded another bend and caught her first glimpse of light from a source not her own lamp. Ignoring her cramped body and a good few spiders that managed to slip past her broom as her sweeps became more hurried, she quickly traversed the last few feet until she found another wooden panel, the cracks in which shone light upon the dirty princess below without revealing anything of the space above. Setting down the broom and pulling the hood up on the lamp before putting it away, Emma crouched down in the small puddle gathered on the stone and waited, listening for sounds as she caught her breath and swatted away a spider from her pant leg. She shuddered desperately. At least the world beyond the small hatch above her seemed quiet.

Emma waited a few more minutes. Being a princess meant she got away with a lot, but it also meant there were certain boundaries she could cross even less than anyone else in the Kingdom—and these boundaries had become more rigid the older she had gotten. Instinctively, she knew getting caught sneaking about in underground tunnels well below the palace’s main floor was on that short list, and she did not want to get caught. She was in enough trouble as it was because she had _effortlessly_ beaten Prince Fredrick II at sword fighting. Her mother had done that disapproving squinty thing she did when she saw another political disaster on the horizon courtesy of her daughter, and Emma had scoffed, muttering that if she had not wanted her to beat the kid a year her junior, she should have told her in advance so she could have flaked out. Obviously, that had made her mother even madder, but behind her back, the King had given Emma one of his proud daddy-David smiles, and she knew that if she treaded lightly for a while, her mother would be just fine. If Snow could do anything to perfection, it was smooth over Emma’s unruliness with members of the neighbouring royal courts. She’d been doing it for as long as Emma had been alive, after all. 

Returning to the present, Emma imprinted on herself once more that she simply could not get caught and vowed to take it slow. Another minute and then she straightened as much as the cramped space would allow. She placed her dusty hands on the wood of the hatch and pressed experimentally, finding that the hatch would not budge at all. A firmer press with her shoulders had better results, and she held back a cough as dust and sand settled on her as the hatch gave way. Letting the wood sink down again, she listened intently for anything out of the ordinary, but was again met by silence. Wherever she was, it was not well-travelled. 

This time, she could press the hatch up with just her fingertips, and she lifted it high enough to soundlessly place it to the side. Again, she waited a moment, then peeked her head out, turning around rapidly to take in the space above. She was in a hallway of sorts and it was deserted. Standing up fully now, she found her head sticking out of a hole in the floor that seemed to be hewn out of rock like the tunnel she was still standing in. This hallway actually looked like a hallway, however, and was lined with oil lamps hanging off beams that seemed to support the structure. It was high enough for two broad shouldered and tall men to walk through side-by-side without having to duck or get intimately close to either the walls or each other. One side of the hallway was solid rock, the other was lined with doors, four in total, and at the end was a spiralling staircase leading up, although Emma wouldn’t have been able to guess where it led up to. Behind her was solid rock again, and Emma realized her hatch—small as it was—probably served as drainage.

Even with the lamps, the hallways were badly lid, and the small, barred, windows of the doors were dark. It smelled damp and musty, and a little like the sea. A subtle, lingering, scent of urine and faeces made Emma crinkle her nose in disgust. Right away, she wondered what kind of puddle she was actually standing in, but forced the thought aside as fast as she could. One thing was for sure, whatever this place was, it couldn’t be part of the palace.

Seeing as she was absolutely alone, Emma decided to risk further exploration. She reached up and placed the lantern on the edge of her exit before pulling herself up until she could wrestle herself on her forearms, the edge of the square hole digging painfully into her chest. This would have been so much easier when she was still ten, although she probably wouldn’t have been able to reach the edge then. Struggling, she swung her legs to get a bit of momentum and managed to push herself up onto her hands and put a knee on the cold stone below. At least her upper body strength courtesy of hours and hours of combat training was paying off. 

Heaving herself up the last of the way, she managed to climb up and out, standing carefully as her ears picked up on something—a grating sound like iron on stone. Freezing, she felt her heart pounding in her throat as she waited for the sound to repeat. It didn’t. With a sigh, she relaxed her posture and eyed the hole she’d just climbed out of, located at the end of the dead-end hallway. Why on earth anyone had wanted to make an escape route out of the palace to this Gods forsaken place was beyond her.

Patting down her clothes lightly to get the dust and cobwebs off of it, she decided on a plan of action. The doors needed closer inspection, of course, and if she dared, she would see where the staircase led. It was only a quick step to the first door, and she peeked inside without preamble. It was dark—too dark. She couldn’t see a thing with the back light from the lanterns. She hurried to get her own and slid the hood to the side, focusing the beam inwards, beyond the bars of the door that was further embellished with a small door that shut at the top. 

Peeking in, Emma found a barren room, mouldy straw on the ground, and a cot on the right side, against the stone wall. Rusty chains ran down over it, extending from bolts in the wall to shackles at the ends. That was all there was to the room, and Emma suddenly realized what she was looking at: a cell. This was a dungeon, and seeing as there was nothing around the palace for miles, it had to be _part of it_. Shivering, Emma stepped back as if stung, banging the lamp into the wall next to her arm as she did so and causing a Gods awful ruckus in the dead silence of the hallway.

Dying of mortification, Emma’s eyes widened as her breath caught in her throat. She froze and held her breath, heart pounding, as the sound she had thought she had imagined returned. Metal slid over stone slowly—hesitantly—and Emma did not have to guess what she was hearing; she now knew. Behind one of the doors further down the line, someone was chained to the wall and was now standing up from the cot, roused by Emma’s legendary clumsiness. Emma’s heart tried to pound out of her chest, and she barely contained a shriek when a voice rough with disuse—a distinctly female voice—shattered the silence.

“Who goes there?”

It was a logical question, and one Emma—obviously—couldn’t answer. Instead, she stood frozen to the spot as the sound of iron scraping over stone returned, and then Emma saw fingers wrap around bars of the door farthest away from her. They were dirty, and trembling, and inhumanly pale. Emma stopped breathing, eyes wide, and backed up against the wall. This time, she was careful not to bang the lamp into anything. 

“I heard you. Who are you?” 

There was no malice in the voice, just quiet curiosity and obvious mistrust; the voice of someone starved for connection but who never got it. Emma had to get away, she had to go. Now. She couldn’t talk to a criminal who would obviously rat her out the moment she got the chance to. She was in here for a reason, after all.

Scrambling as quickly and quietly as she could, Emma put down the lamp and sat down on the floor, legs dangling into the hole, hoping she was still out of sight of the prisoner. She cast one more look at the fingers still wrapped around the bars and lowered herself down as her quickly beating heart and frantic mind urged her into greater urgency. She reached for the hot lamp and set it down on the ground, burning herself in her hurry to get out. She silently cursed, sucking on the scorched flesh of her thumb, and flailed with the other until the pain faded enough to reach for the panel to seal the hole back up. Another scraping of iron over stone, and Emma was moved to greater urgency. She grabbed the lamp, her broom, and hurried down the passageway as fast as she could, her only thought being to get out—get away—before she was discovered and she would be in more trouble with her parents than she had ever been. 

At least the voice did not return.

This time, she did not care about rats or spiders and she made it through the passageway in maybe a third of the time. Her back hurt, and her little brush with the potential consequences of her actions had left her emotionally drained. She still felt hounded, the woman’s voice ringing clearly in her ears as if she was still in the hallway, pressed up against the wall, knowing she was in for a world of hurt if she got caught; there was no excuse to be found cavorting with prisoners. Still, the emotional turmoil that had been in the woman’s words had touched something in Emma, and she felt forever changed—shamed.

Once she got to the much larger hatch on ‘her’ side of the tunnel, she forced herself to slow down and listen before pushing the wooden panel up. The practice area of the armoury was deserted, and she hoisted herself up quickly, leaving the soiled broom and the extinguished lamp behind in the tunnel. She placed the panel back quickly, pushed the display case over it, made sure the armour looked presentable, and stripped to her undergarments. With as much attention as she dared to give the task Emma washed herself with the bucket of cold water she had set out for herself, making sure her hands were clean and hoping her face was as well. It took her only a few minutes to force herself into the dress she was expected to wear for dinner and which she had stashed inside the armour on the stand for the time being. 

Before long, Emma had her hair back into a presentable state and she had exchanged her dusty boots for clean ones. She quickly stuffed her clothes in the bag her dress had come from and flung it over her shoulder. Her heart was still pounding in her chest when she ascended the stairs to the main hall and slipped up the stairs to her rooms. She only relaxed when the heavy wooden door to her bedroom fell shut behind her and she could stash her bag in the back of her wardrobe where no one would care to look. Her wardrobe had been labelled a disaster zone long ago.

Falling onto the bed, panting wildly, Emma stared up at the ceiling and tried to wrap her head around what she had just experienced. Her parents—Snow White and Prince-bloody-Charming—had someone locked in a dirty dungeon far below the palace, and Emma hadn’t known. Worse yet, Emma had almost been discovered. What if the woman told the guards who visited her that there had been someone with her in the hallway?

Emma groaned, bringing an arm up to cover her eyes in an attempt to block out the entire world. She had been lucky; no one could possibly know it had been Emma—even if the woman told—but Emma knew she could never again risk a trip through the tunnel. Her parents had kept the prisoner a secret for a reason, and if they ever learned Emma knew about her, she would be grounded forever, despite being an adult now. Her parents were sweethearts, but they were also the King and Queen, and their word was law. Still, the knowledge of the prisoner below the ground had Emma feeling inexperienced and young, and she didn’t know how to handle a situation like this. This sort of thing was not covered in her lessons, and she most certainly lacked the life experience for it. This was not an adventure, this was not the quest to slay a dragon that she desperately wanted to go on. She should just leave well enough alone.

If only Emma wasn’t so damn _curious_ now.


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner tasted like sawdust that night, and Emma had tasted enough of that during combat practice to know. She had spent enough time deep in thought, pushing her peas around her plate, for her mother to ask her if everything was alright—twice. She spooked and nodded, stuffing her mouth with a mixture of chicken and mashed potatoes and smirked around it to indicate she most certainly couldn’t answer. Her mother sighed at her table manners, and cast a telling glance at her husband who glanced between the two women in his life and sighed, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth on his napkin before folding his arms on the table before him.

“Hey Em, how about after dinner, we go a few rounds? It’s been a while since we had a good sword fight.” David tried, and Emma mulled the proposal over. Honestly, she would love to have a practice session with her dad. These sessions, after all, made up most of her best childhood memories growing up in the Kingdom. Yet, she saw right through the blatant attempt to get information out of her, and she wasn’t really in the mood for playful banter while she hid her feelings. Then she realized that maybe some time alone with the King would give her the opportunity to find out about the dungeons, and if she could just hide she knew about them, she should be fine—and no longer curious enough to perhaps attempt another trip.

“Okay, yes. Sounds fun, dad.” She answered after clearing her mouth, and both her parents smiled. Emma returned the gesture and stabbed a few peas before sliding them into her mouth, careful with her burn that hurt far more now than it had in the morning. At least she had managed to get away with blaming it on her clumsiness—which was completely true. She observed her aging parents as they ate, sitting close together, and still very much in love. Her father’s hair was greying slightly, and her mother’s long hair was losing its colour as well, although it was still full and thick. Wrinkles had started to line both their faces. They both looked healthy, though, and happy, despite the weight of ruling a kingdom that constantly rested on their strong shoulders. The last few days, however, they had become more and more withdrawn as messengers trickled in with notes Emma was never allowed to read.

She admired them. Even to this day, her mother was one of the best archers in the land, and no one could best her father in a sword fight. They very rarely had to put their skills to the test, but they had both inspired the same level of devotion to combat arts in Emma as they held themselves. Her father had insisted on the lessons in battle strategy and practical leadership that Emma enjoyed because it meant she got to roughhouse with the guards and soldiers stationed at the palace. Her mother’s diplomacy, etiquette, and crafts lessons were a lot less desirable to the unruly blonde whose instincts were always to do and say the exact opposite of what her mother tried to instill in her. Needless to say, her mother’s lessons were frustrating for them both, but they prepared her for the life she was going to live.

Emma loved her parents, she loved her life, but she was fighting the inevitability of growing up to _become_ them. Soon, her parents would marry her off—they had already held off for three years in the hopes that Emma would fall in love on her own, but it wouldn’t be long before they would be forced to choose for her. Emma dreaded that moment and had tried to be more open towards the boys of the neighbouring courts. They were all idiots, however, and none of them could best her in a fight. It was unfair, but Emma expected her future husband to at least handle a sword as well as she did. Having grown up with pretty much the same training as she had, they should be able to overtake her with their naturally superior strength. None of them had, however. 

Sighing, she put her fork down. Today’s discovery had brought home to Emma a sense of reality she tended to avoid at all cost. Emma didn’t like responsibility, preferring to shirk away until one of her parents felt obligated to give her The Talk. She could pretty much recite it by heart by now. It would always start with her responsibilities as future heir, about the kingdom she would rule one day, and the responsibility she had towards her subjects who loved her. They did—whenever Emma ventured out, she was greeted with cheers and smiles, and while it made her blush, she liked the attention. Ruling over them one day, though, had her breaking out in hives. 

Her parents would then continue to tell her of the Great War that took place before she was even born, of the exile of the former Queen—her mother’s step-mother—and her attempt to assassinate Snow on multiple occasions. There had never been anyone so evil in all of the lands, although when her mother told the story, Emma always sensed pain in her, not anger. The war had ended just after her birth, when the Evil Queen had attempted to cast a curse that had not only failed but killed her in the process. It was a familiar story, and Emma had heard it since she was a little girl, staring up at her glass unicorn mobile and dreaming of saving the people from an adversary so powerful. 

“I think I’m done.” She announced, and her dad nodded while Snow inspected her plate.

“You’ve barely touched your food, sweetheart. Are you alright?” Her mother’s voice carried a note of worry, and Emma shook her head. 

“I’m fine, mom. Just not hungry today. I’ll get some left-overs after training with dad.” Emma promised, and knew she probably would. If Emma could count on one thing in her life, it was her stomach’s ability to request food at all hours of the day. Appeased, Snow allowed her to excuse herself to change into her fitted armour and David promised he would meet her in the courtyard after he finished his dinner and changed outfits himself. 

Emma loved walking around in her leather armour. Leather always made her feel like a bad-ass, most probably because it was Aunt Red’s favourite material. Red wasn’t her aunt by blood, but she was her mother’s best friend, and Emma had grown up with her always there to talk to and care for her. Especially since the grandmother who had raised her had passed away, Red had been in Emma’s life frequently, having moved into a newly build cottage in the woods near the palace where she was free to roam in wolf form when the moon was full. The fact that Emma had an aunt who was a werewolf would never not thrill her, even though she had only seen her in full wolf form once, and only from a distance. Red was the coolest aunt she could ever ask for, and wearing leather always made her feel more awesome by association.

Before long, Emma was out in the courtyard practice area, experimentally practicing her steps, going through the four basic stances her father had taught her in series while she waited for the man in question. There was something comfortingly familiar about swinging a blade that always made her forget her worries. When she was practicing, there was no upcoming marriage, no prisoner in a dungeon, no crafts lesson that she had to attend against her will. It was just her, her blade, and her opponent. Even with a sore hand, it was blissful. If her attention waned only a second, she would be defeated—dead if the fight were real. It was a relief from her mind, and she was suddenly anxious for her father to arrive. 

“You still hold your right arm too high during the Alber. It’s not called ‘the fool’ for nothing, Emma—only a fool would not see the danger in it, but only if you perform it right.” Her father’s voice was gentle, and Emma sighed, drawing the tip of the sword up to the required height from the ground to show she _did_ know how to perform the move correctly.

“Sorry. Ready?” She answered with a grin, and David nodded, a smile on his handsome features. Emma watched him as he took his position—Ochs; sword horizontal , level with the top of his head—and automatically settled her body into the fool more fully, resting her weight on her forward left foot as she griped the top of the sword handle with her right hand, and the bottom with her left, automatically tipping the long blade to the ground but not enough for it to rest on it. It was a difficult pose to hold and parry from, but she knew how her father fought, and she knew his favourite swings if he started with the ox. She wasn’t wrong; before long, they moved from position to position, parrying blows as they circled each other. Sword fighting was an art, and she was good at it—her father had trained her well. She could hold her own with anyone she had ever fought, but sometimes she worried about people who would not move from position to position, who would simply strike to kill. Would her skills hold up then?

“Dad?” She asked, keeping her breathing level as she had been taught. David’s eyes met hers a moment before he parried a downward swing of her sword from Ochs into Pflug, smoothly stepping out as the sword drove towards Emma’s chest as he beat her to the execution of a Pflug-strike, moving the sword effortlessly into Ochs in return. She smirked, and he mirrored the gesture as they circled each other.

“What is it, Emma?” He asked, and she could read in his loosening muscles she had a moment to talk before the next set.

“Is mom still mad I beat Fredrick yesterday?” She asked, and she caught the start of a proud parental grin on her father’s features before he cleared it off.

“She is… not very amused with your behaviour, but you know how your mother was when she was younger, Em. She was never a very good loser either, and you did win fair and square. Fredrick’s Alber needs even more work than yours.” David said, allowing the grin this time, and Emma rolled her eyes.

“Thanks dad.” She deadpanned, but was secretly happy to hear her mother wasn’t too upset with her. Throwing her father—and by extension her mother—a bone, she sighed. “I do like Fredrick… He’s a pretty decent guy. Cute enough.”

David’s face fell, and he sighed. She could tell he was debating something in his head, but then she was suddenly faced with another round of strikes, and she didn’t have time to think about it. When her father pressed his attack, Emma had trouble withstanding him. David was stronger, and he was taller as well. He’d been fighting—not just practicing like her—for much of his life, even though he’d been raised a shepherd. The sword became an extension of his being in a way she could not yet emulate, and when he pressed the attack like this, it was all she could do to just hang on and not lose her ground. Before long, they were both sweating and panting, and David backed off again, taking a moment to catch his breath as they circled. 

“Your mother and I do not want to arrange a marriage for you, Emma. Both of us were almost forced into a wedding and—” David halted himself again, eyes cast down a moment. “We don’t want to do that to you, but the Kingdom needs for you to have a partner, and kids. It’s unfair, but that is the price royalty pays for a life without worries over food and shelter. We live to rule, and marriage and offspring is a part of that. All your mother and I ask is that you keep your eyes open for someone you can see yourself spending the years with. We have some ideas, but we won't force you to agree to any of them.”

“Okay.” Emma agreed with a sigh, but her father’s words and the darkness on his face caused her heart to clench in her chest and her hands to grip the sword tightly. Marriage scared her—she did not want to give up her freedom, did not want the power and responsibility of ruling. She contemplated her less-than-appealing future, and noticed David’s attack too late. David’s sword connected with hers, and it was dragged from her grip easily, clattering down onto the cobblestones below. She automatically threw up her hands in defeat, and David lowered his sword, stepping over to pick up her sword and hand it back to her. He met her eyes and rested his hand on her sword hand a moment.

“I know this isn’t easy, princess, and until you fall in love, it probably won’t be. Your mother and I love you very much, and we just want to see you happy… but you’re eighteen now, and heir to the throne. You’re old enough to start making your own decisions… and soon enough, you will have to.” He impressed on her, and she nodded, biting her lip as she struggled with her emotions. David smiled sympathetically, and cupped the back of her head, pulling her forward so he could press a kiss onto her forehead. 

“Another round?” He asked, but Emma shook her head. 

“I think I would maybe like to be alone for a while…?” She asked, and he nodded. 

“I understand. You know where to find me, if you want to talk.” He impressed on her, and she nodded. As he left her alone to practice her stances, Emma once more let her thoughts wander. She was half-assing her training, but it only served to have her appear busy so she would be left alone. Choose a man, have kids, rule once her parents died or stepped down; she had always known that was her future. As a young girl, she had always thought a handsome prince would show up one day, that she would look into his eyes and _know_ beyond all doubt that this was the man she would love to spend the rest of her life with. It had happened for her parents, and for many people in her life. Very few of the royal courts did not have a story like this, so she had always thought it would happen for her as well—only it hadn’t. She had met plenty a young man and she had never felt anything for them… and now her time was running out.

Emma angrily forced a strike intended for the neck of her imaginary enemy, and froze into her stance, her face a mask of frustrated confusion. She took a deep, steadying, breath before relaxing her body. All these thoughts and words, and she wasn’t even one bit closer to the identity of the person in the dungeon. She sighed and lowered her sword, sheathing it easily so the weight of it pressed comfortingly against her thigh. Settling her unruly hair with a hand, she gruffly realized that the only thing she was closer to was a marriage she was not ready for, and that did not settle her mind at all—instead, the thought stayed with her for the rest of the day, nagging in the back of her mind and souring her mood. 

Her parents—at least partially aware of her thought process now—left her alone to figure it out, but the more Emma tried to, the more her mind became infected by thoughts of the woman locked up below. It was a challenge, a riddle, an adventure—and it offered an escape from her current state of mind overcome with reality and worry. Despite promising herself she would not return to the woman, by the time she got into bed that night, she knew she most likely would. She did not want to risk outing herself to the prisoner and getting even further on her mom’s bad side, and yet, the thought was so appealing. It was something she had control over, that she could indulge in, and despite knowing it was the dumb thing to do, she wondered how much longer she could restrain herself. Emma had never been known for her rational thinking capabilities, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma could not restrain herself for long, it seemed, because here she was, clambering through the tunnel with her lamp in one hand, and the willow brush in the other. When she had awoken this morning, she had been gripped immediately by her fears over her future, and had quickly found herself without the ability to breath. Throwing off her covers, she had grabbed her bag from the closet, had dressed in one of the least restrictive of her dresses, and had slipped down into the rarely used armoury. The only thing on her schedule were etiquette lessons with her mother in the afternoon, and she just hoped her parents wouldn’t send someone to hunt her down when she didn’t show up for breakfast. It happened every once in a while, so hopefully they would let it slide. 

She had cleared the clothes in her bag of the worst of the dust and grime before changing into them, drawing the hood over her hair carefully. She had clipped it in place and then stuffed her dress in the bag. Pushing the breastplate of the armour on the stand out of the way, she had pushed the bag into one of the leg guards and had gotten on her way.

Here, on the other side, everything was quiet again. Emma suspected this was the regular state of being of the hallway; quiet and barely lit. The panel gave way easily this time, and she soundlessly moved it off, sticking her head out to check if the coast was clear for sure. She wasn’t surprised to find it was. This time she left the lantern down in the tunnel as she hauled herself up onto the damp stone. The burn on her thumb was throbbing, and she did not need a repeat. Panting again, her eyes were drawn to the last cell in the row easily, and this time, a soft light shone out from behind the bars; the flickering of candles.

Emma didn’t know what to do. Coming here to chase away her thoughts and maybe satisfy a little bit of her curiosity had sounded like a good idea while still in bed—and even in the tunnel—but faced with the reality of it, it was also pretty scary. She had no idea who the prisoner was or why she was here, and for all Emma knew, that reason could be murder or something equally horrendous. It would have to be if the woman was locked up.

The already familiar scraping sound returned then, and it shook Emma out of her reverie. She closed her eyes a moment, and put her fears aside in favour of stupidity and distraction. She just _had_ to talk to the prisoner. Pointedly, she cleared her throat and right away, the scraping noise died down. A moment passed, then another.

“Have you returned, intruder?” The voice sounded, and this time it was stronger, filled with dark amusement that had Emma shivering. She could still leave. There was no reason to talk to the prisoner… but in her heart she knew she would eventually do so anyway, because Emma was the most stubborn person Emma knew.

“I did.” She said, and silence fell before metal dragged over stone and fingers wrapped around the bars again. 

“Why not show yourself, then? It’s perfectly alright to look at me, dear. The only creature with the power to turn onlookers to stone was defeated by _Snow White_ long ago.” The woman spoke, and the level of malice she managed to put into the name of Emma’s mother had Emma rethink her bravery. Then again, she would most likely have little love for whoever had locked her away in a dark dungeon as well. Presenting herself braver than she felt, she stepped forward until she was standing six feet away from the door, and dark eyes met hers from the shadowy darkness of the prison cell.

“My, my, who do we have here? Do you have a name, little mouse?” The woman mused, and scraped a long and dirty fingernail over the side of one of the rusty bars. She was not what Emma had expected—and Emma wasn’t even quite sure what she _had_ expected. She had not expected the prisoner to be beautiful, for one, nor for her to be younger than her parents. She was dirty, and her hair was unkempt and long, matted in places, but there was no denying the appeal of strong features, soulful eyes and a wicked smirk. Emma’s heart clenched dangerously, then started to pound—more so when the woman’s words registered. Emma blamed it on nerves.

“I-My name… it’s Odette.” She forced out, covering her identity with a lie—the first one she could come up with. The woman’s eyebrow raised in questioning amusement.

“So not a mouse then, but a swan.” She answered, and now it was Emma’s turn to look confused. 

“A swan?” She blurted and a rich laugh filled the hallway. Emma’s eyes darted to the staircase desperately, wishing the other woman would be quiet already, but the prisoner did not seem worried in the slightest.

“It is a tale from another kingdom, my dear.” The brunette started, amused. When Emma cocked an expectant eyebrow, the woman’s face settled into indulgence—not obedience. “Princess Odette is the main character of a very old tale. She was promised in marriage to a prince from the neighbouring kingdom in the hopes of improving the relations between the two lands. His name was Derek. Neither prince nor princess were particularly excited with this future event while they were children, but grew into the idea once they came of age. They fell in love, and for a while, they were happy, until the prince spoke of marrying Odette solely for her looks. She ended the relationship then, and broke her mother’s worried heart.”

“Of course, there was an evil enchanter who wished to marry the princess himself, so he attacked her and her father’s carriage. Striking down her father, he took Odette away to his palace. King William, unfortunately, did not survive the attack. Rothbart, the enchanter, proceeded to cast a curse upon Odette: during the day, she would be a swan, but during the night she would be able to turn into her human self—when she was shone upon by moonlight while on the lake outside of the palace of her captor. Derek came upon King William just before he passed, and the King told him Odette was ‘gone’. In that moment, he realized that he loved her for far more than her looks, and vowed not to choose another princess until he was sure she was dead. If she were still alive, he would save her.” The story fell off soft lips effortlessly, as if she had told it a hundred times before. It gave Emma the opportunity to study her features—sharp and pale under the grime—and drown in a clear voice that was both unsettling and soothing. A soft shiver ran down Emma's spine and she found herself unable to look away.

“…And so, Prince Derek travelled the realms in search of his princess and after many a mishap and dangerous situation, he managed to free Odette from the clutches of the evil enchanter, who was—of course—killed. Not long after, the prince and princess married and they live happily ever after, as is the structure of these tales.” The prisoner’s voice faded out slowly, leaving only silence as seconds ticked by in which Emma tried to get her bearings back. The spell that had captured Emma’s attention was broken as the prisoner stopped speaking, but dark eyes continued to entrap her. She coughed, covering for her own conflicting emotions. Listening to a soft voice speaking of love while a dark current choked the words had been chilling, but also made her feel very much alive.

The woman had recounted the tale merrily enough, but there was a layer of such darkness under the words that the entirety of it seemed twisted and broken by the end of it. Emma wondered why, and more importantly, why the story was so familiar to her, why ‘Odette’ was the name that had come to her at all, but she didn’t have time to ponder either question.

“It’s a family name.” She lied, answering the woman’s earlier question, and wondered if the woman knew she was not telling the truth. If she did, she did not say so, and Emma was thankful for it. Bravely she asked the question that had been burning in her mind since she had first heard the woman’s voice. “What is yours?”

The woman looked at her a moment, appraising her, and then her smirk deepened. 

“Tell me, ‘Miss Swan’, what is a girl like yourself doing in a place like this?” Her voice was soft and laced with amusement, but the darkness was never far away. Emma huffed, rebuffed and not appreciative of the fact.

“Okay, if you aren’t going to give me your name, tell me how you know about the Swan Princess.” Emma demanded, determined to turn the tables again—jaw setting in light of the rudeness displayed. Emma was used to a lot of reactions from her subjects, but none of them put themselves above the future Queen, and Emma did not like the feeling as she was put in the position to feel what that felt like. The prisoner looked her up and down appraisingly, and Emma had to fight herself not to stare down at her own body self-consciously. Finally, the prisoner answered, but again, it felt more like Emma was being indulged instead of obeyed.

“My mother was not of this land. The tale is an old one, and it was brought to this land by her. She would read it to me from a book of stories she had in her possession, an old leather-bound tome; small but coloured a beautiful red. It came into my possession once I was married, and I spent many a night reading it to my husband’s young daughter. It was one of the tales she enjoyed most.” The woman answered her, and Emma could not detect a single lie in the words—which shocked her, frankly. Somehow, she had not expected the prisoner to speak the truth; she did not seem like the type, even though the brunette had not given Emma a reason to mistrust her aside from being incarcerated.

Her ability to tell when people were lying was something Emma was very proud of. Her internal lie detector was almost never wrong, and she had come to rely on it a lot in life. As for the woman’s story, there was something familiar about the description of the book, and that rattled her. What rattled her even more was the darkness that clung to the words, a barely veiled hatred that seeping into the words as soon as mention was made of the woman’s husband and step-daughter.

“Where are they now?” She blurted out, “…your husband and step-daughter?”

Dark eyes regarded her again, and Emma held her gaze, withstanding the scrutiny and deeming _herself_ worthy of the answer in the hopes the woman would find her so as well. The hands on the bars relaxed and the prisoner broke eye-contact first, leaving Emma to do an inward victory dance of dominance.

“ _He_ is dead. He died many years ago, by my design.” Emma’s eyes widened, but not so much at the confession as the mixture of pain and anger that clung to the words. Everything about this woman was intense, and the dark eyes that once more settled on her through the bars of the cell door especially so. “My step-daughter is leading a happy life, I wager—the life she always desired to have. She was a Swan Princess like yourself, Odette, and Swan Princesses always get their happily-ever-after’s once the evil enchanters are out of the way.”

“Are you an evil enchanter?” Emma pressed, seeing an opening to get to the truth and seizing it. Another silence, but then the woman’s voice softened as she kept steady eye-contact with the youth.

“I am not evil,” She started, and Emma was sure that the woman at least believed this to be true. “…but I was forced into the role you speak of, regardless.” 

“Tell me, Odette; where would your namesake and her prince be if they had not suffered at the hands of the enchanter?” The prisoner asked, and despite wanting to give her a different answer, Emma told her the truth.

“Apart.” 

“Indeed, apart. Think of my role in my tale as that of the enchanter: a catalyst for events that had to unfold.” The brunette regarded her a moment, then leaned into the bars. “Now answer my question, as I have generously answered yours: how did you come to be here?”

“I found an entrance by accident, and I got curious.” Emma answered, knowing she, indeed, owed the woman a few ‘truths’ now. Emma was not a good liar, so she decided to go with a variation of the truth, skirting around her true identity. The prisoner hummed at her answer. 

“Alright, that is fair, I suppose. Did you come back to satisfy your curiosity about me?” The question was posed innocently enough, but Emma was on guard anyway. The woman’s eyes slid down to the hands Emma was subconsciously wringing. She stopped them right away, and the imprisoned woman chuckled.

“I will take that as a ‘yes’.” The brunette assumed, and Emma’s jaw set, her anger kicking in, fueling her bravery. 

“Hey! I didn’t come down here to be laughed at, okay? Who are you? Tell me your name!” She forced, and was dismayed to find the woman’s smile only deepened in light of her anger. The long fingers slid off of the bars of the window, and with a last lingering look, the woman turned around, fading into the room beyond and out of Emma’s sight.

“And here I thought we were having a civilized conversation. Come back tomorrow, ‘princess’, and I will tell you.” Emma heard as she was left standing with her righteous anger. Blinking, she realized this visit was over—and it had not been ended on her terms. 

Whatever she had envisioned when imagining this encounter, this had not been it. She had imagined desperation, tears, maybe to get yelled at—but not this. She recognized the feeling, though: like she had presented herself at the court of a foreign power and had been found lacking. She bit her lip, trying to decide the next course of action. She didn’t want to give the woman the satisfaction of begging for her attention—she was a princess, damn it, and the brunette a prisoner—and she also hadn’t crawled all this way to be _dismissed_.

Stepping forward, she opened her mouth to speak, but shut it again as the light source in the cell blinked out, leaving the room in total darkness, save for an unfocused beam of light that diffusely lit a small portion of it, courtesy of the lamps in the hallway. Emma took a steadying breath and waited a moment. She didn’t know what to do now she was faced with an impasse; demand the woman’s attention and risk getting rebuffed and embarrassed, or leave.

Eventually, she settled on the less embarrassing of the two options she had. She left the hallway with her head held high—not her tail between her legs, damn it—and silently vowed never to return again, to not give the woman that satisfaction. Just before she slid the cover of the manhole back in place, however, she thought she heard a faint sigh coming from the cell and wondered if the prisoner had perhaps been more affected than she had let on by their conversation. She was startled to find that she hoped that was the case, because Emma surely was affected. She was affected by dark eyes that saw right through her, by a voice that she could almost feel, and a story that rattled her to the bone. Slipping the cover onto the hole firmly and picking up her lantern and broom, she begun the steady crawl back up to the palace, knowing she would not be gone from the cell and its occupant for long.


	4. Chapter 4

Last night, Emma had dreamed about dark eyes and slender fingers, about the prisoner lying on the rough and shabby cot she had seen in the other cell and shivering in the eternal draft of the cell. She had woken up shivering and panicked, forgetting for a moment where she was and thinking it was her who had been locked up in the dark and cold, not the prisoner she had met yesterday. With a start, her curiosity had clawed its way deeper inside of her, taking hold around her heart as she had become aware of a new sensation: empathy. She had come to feel for the woman who could recite children’s stories from the top of her head and who had sighed into the dark of a cell after dismissing perhaps the only human contact she had had in hours—maybe even days; the only extended contact she'd had in perhaps years. Emma was feeling empathy for a woman who had orchestrated a murder, and it worried her.

She had shivered and gotten out of bed, hoping the change of scenery would calm her head and heart—only it hadn’t. The book and the woman had become part of her being, and she didn’t understand why, or how. None of that mattered now, though, because Emma was stuck with embroidery lessons with her mom and she could not get away. Embroidery: the bane of her existence. 

Emma was terrible at embroidery and any of the related crafts on the best of days, but now her mind was almost solely preoccupied with the words of the woman in the dungeon and her own inability to place the hauntingly familiar story of Princess Odette, the skill had completely left her. Somewhere between her brain and her hands, Emma lost all ability to pull string through cotton in the hopes of creating a horse that looked less like the four-legged chicken she was crafting now. 

Frustrated, she once more pulled out three stitches and managed to tangle the thread in the process. Gritting her teeth, she plucked at the resulting knots with her dirty fingernails, flashing back to long fingers with dirt coating them, grime stuck under the long nails as well. Next to her, her mother was effortlessly stitching together an exquisite flower pattern and humming lightly, obviously not feeling as inadequate and frustrated as her daughter. With a groan, Emma let her head fall back against the back of her armchair, and heard her mother’s tune end.

“Is everything alright, sweetheart?” Snow asked worriedly, slowing her own work so she could look at her daughter.

“Fine. I love untangling knots.” Emma groaned in reply, not lifting her head and keeping her eyes on the beamed ceiling above her, praying for divine intervention to get her out of this hell. 

“Emma, embroidery is a valuable skill for a woman—just like sword fighting and battle strategy.” Snow quickly placated her daughter, who had turned her head to squint at her at the mention of the word ‘woman’. They were holed up in one of the palace’s smaller rooms, a small fire burning in the fireplace, and two cups of tea in front of them on the table. The small room was one of her mother’s favourites because it had an excellent view of both the mountains and the forest from the one large window in the room. Emma was quite sure her mother missed the time she had spent running around in those woods, having adventures and being free. Her mother was a good Queen, but she had been a fantastic bandit as well, and Emma loved it when either of her parents told her stories about that time. 

“I’m fairly certain two out of three ain’t bad.” She deadpanned dejectedly and reached out to toss the ring with her work on the table. She needed a break. Pulling her legs up onto the chair in a way that had Snow wrinkle her nose, Emma leaned back again, turning to her mom. Her previous train of thought had shaken something loose in her.

“Mom, when I was a kid… did you ever tell me the story of a princess who was turned into a swan?” She asked. That was the only logical explanation, wasn’t it? That the story was shared with her when she was much younger and had been gobbled up by her mind, only to be regurgitated now, years later? Next to her, her mother froze a moment, her hand trembling before she exhaled and turned her head to look at her. Emma kept her face neutral as she realized the moment had suddenly become loaded and the silence deafening. 

“No, I don’t think I have.” Snow said pleasantly, smiling through the tightness in her jaw, and Emma felt a childhood delusion die inside her chest. Her mother had just blatantly lied to her, and Snow was well aware of that fact. Emma swallowed, then smiled forcedly.

“Okay.” She answered equally lightly, glancing away and settling on her embroidery. She reached forward and begun to pluck at the knots in the thread again to give her hands something to do. The small room suddenly felt crushing. Snow’s eyes had not left her yet, and she wondered if her mother would be able to sense somehow that she had been talking to someone she obviously shouldn’t be—an enemy of the Kingdom. A mysterious woman whose eyes haunted her and whose words echoed in her mind since she had first heard her voice; a woman whose sigh had fractured Emma’s heart without knowing quite why.

“Why do you ask, honey?” Snow asked sweetly, but Emma knew better. There was a strain to her calm and quiet collectedness, and Emma realized she had to tread carefully. Her mother did not have the ability Emma had, but she knew her daughter well. 

“It just… popped into my mind yesterday.” Emma said, speaking the absolute truth. Snow’s brows knitted together a little, and Emma smiled, slipping the thread through the needle again and starting attempt number five for a cross stitch. Levelling her voice into disinterest, Emma shrugged, busying herself with the tools in her hand. “It’s nothing. I was just wondering. I must have dreamed it or something.” 

“You must have, indeed.” Snow answered, and looked her over a few more seconds before unclenching her jaw with a sigh and returning to her own work. The long hour afterwards was even more uncomfortable than the first had been; now Emma wasn’t only distracted by her thoughts about the prisoner and the story, but also the fact that her mother knew the story of the Swan Princess very well, and would rather lie to her than tell her. Emma felt betrayed and hurt, but mostly, she felt a stubborn determination settle in her mind to get to the bottom of this, starting with the library the first chance she got.

The chance presented itself the following morning as a messenger came rushing through the palace’s gate on horseback, nearly falling over himself to present his message to the King and Queen who were at breakfast with their daughter at the time. As always, Emma’s parents did not make the messenger wait; they sat him down with a mug of water and when he recalled his message of an Ogre plaguing a nearby hovel, her parents exchanged worried looks before ordering the messenger a meal. Emma was up before even her father was, but her idea to join her parents was shot down so fast, Emma fell back into her chair with wide eyes and mouth gaping for words. Anger flared, but her etiquette lessons kicked in well enough to limit herself to the setting of her jaw and the question if she could be dismissed. Request granted, she marched up to her room and slammed the door as loudly as she could, well aware she was too old to pull a stunt like that.

She watched from the window of her bedroom as a small garrison was assembled and her parents rode off. A single Ogre was hardly cause for concern—which was also what pissed Emma off; this would be near-harmless practice!—but she still worried about her parents, despite her frustration with the double meaning to their message of wanting her to grow up and still letting her take absolutely zero responsibility. She ducked when her mother looked up before rushing through the gate, and hated herself for it a little.

It took her nearly half an hour of angrily mucking about her room before she realized she had the palace to herself—well, at least without people to question why she was looking for a little book, bound in red leather. The more she had thought about it yesterday, the more logical it became: the prisoner had said that her mother had brought the tale to this land in a book of this description, and if Snow had, indeed told Emma the story when she was a child, that book must have gotten into her possession somehow. It must still be in her possession now. 

A few minutes later, Emma found herself in the library—which was extensive. Books were an expensive commodity, but her mother loved them so much that David indulged her. Snow had once told her that her own father had always brought her books from his travels as well, and every single one of them was here, stacked neatly away in high bookcases in one of the larger halls. A staircase led up to a landing where even more books were housed. Emma sighed as she observed the room; this was going to be a challenge, for sure.

Setting to work, Emma decided to start and work her way through the room clockwise before tackling the landing. She estimated she had half a day to search and opened the windows overlooking the courtyard so she would be able to hear her parents come back should it be less. With determination, she began to scan the tomes on the shelves, looking for the red leather needle in the book-filled haystack. 

It took her two hours to determine the book wasn’t in the library. They had books on everything from how to best prepare Chimera flesh to sword fighting—including a book on the latter subject she had never seen before and which she took out of the bookcase to read in her room—but no small leather tome about a swan princess. 

Emma stood in the middle of the room, eying the bookcases with her hands firmly on her hips, squinting in frustration. She had been _so sure_ she had been right, that her mother had read the book to her and that was why she knew the name ‘Odette’. Somewhere along the way, it had become imperative she find the book before she returned to the woman in the dungeons. It had become a way for her to get the upper hand back; to get clues about the identity of the woman, perhaps. She simply could not go back until she had it in her possession—and she wanted to go back. Very badly, in fact. 

These thoughts were driving her crazy, and she should be focusing on finding someone to marry, on becoming Queen, on bloody _embroidery_ ; on anything besides a murderer locked away in a dungeon… yet here she was, spending her free morning hunting for a book that obviously wasn’t here. Defeated, Emma returned to her room with the one book that had made the effort at least moderately worth it. Falling backwards onto the bed and dropping the book next to her, Emma racked her brain on a course of action. By chance, her eyes fell on the tiny bookshelf next to her writing desk, and she sprung up invigorated. Her parents—like her—had their favourite books with them in their rooms. If her mother had read the story to Emma than perhaps she was attached to the book enough for her to keep it close. 

Emma crossed the hallways to her parents’ bedroom easily, checking for guards and servants before sipping inside and closing the door behind her. Technically, she was allowed in these rooms, but seeing as she was on a mission for something her mother obviously did not want her to know about, Emma made sure not to be spotted. Adrenaline shot through her system like firework as she looked around, taking in the spacious and comfortable room and locating the bookshelf easily. 

She spotted the space where the book should have been right away; a small empty slot in front of which the dust had been disturbed. Her mother had taken the book after their talk and had hidden it, perhaps she even had it with her; Emma was sure of it. The only books on the side table to the bed did not fit in the small space, and there were no other books close. Emma straightened, chewing her lip, and looked around. She was here now, and she was going to try to find the book. Once Emma had something set in her mind, it was hard to talk her out of it, and when it came to this, she had no desire to even try.

Emma spent the next hour carefully searching the room. She was good at looking for things; in fact, she was also a good tracker. She had sharp eyes and a mind that was able to focus solely on a task, or so Aunt Red had told her. It had come in handy while searching the library and it came in handy now as she went through various drawers, chests, closets and suitcases before starting on more unlikely places like under the mattress and behind the furniture. Making sure everything was back in its proper place, she then started the hunt for even more unlikely places: loose floorboards, secret panels and loose stones.

She found the book after at least an hour and a half after entering the room, wedged into the small space below the wood of one of the windowsills. She could pry the wood up easily, and felt her heart skip a beat as she saw the worn leather book that fitted easily into her hand. It was light, too, especially for a leather bound volume. Emma checked outside, heart pounding in her chest. Her parents’ bedroom looked out over the garden, not the courtyard, but seeing as everyone below was quietly working, she figured her parents were not back yet. With hands that trembled slightly, she opened the book, hearing the leather crack.

The book itself did not have a title on it, but the cover page held a small scribble, written in a delicate hand:

_To my beloved daughter:  
be the swan only a moment, be the Queen forever.  
C._


	5. Chapter 5

“What is your name?” Emma started, hearing the already familiar rattle emerge from the cell she once more found herself in front of. It was dark inside, but the older woman’s voice was clear as she spoke, just before she appeared behind the small window. 

“Ah, the swan returns.” The prisoner spoke, and Emma’s puffed up courage and bravado faded away under sparkling and slightly menacing eyes that landed heavily upon her. Somehow, the brunette managed to overtake her with a single look that dragged from her toes to the crown of her head, burning her skin until she found herself blushing and faltering.

“I—If I came back, you promised to tell me your name. I came back.” She spoke, hating the way her voice broke almost right away, the woman chuckled.

“Did I now? I do not remember the words ‘I promise’ crossing my lips. Oh now, ‘Miss Swan’, do not cry… or have a temper tantrum, whatever that little lip quiver meant. I will tell you my name on one condition: that you tell me yours.” 

Emma knew she was being toyed with. The woman’s voice was dark and almost sultry, yet too amused to truly be so. This woman was an expert manipulator, Emma realized, and yet, she felt no fear, just frustration.

“I already told you my name.” She proclaimed, and the woman shook her head without letting go of her gaze, dark eyes drilling into green ones.

“You have given me _a_ name. It is not yours, however. The way you said it was as if you had never wrapped your lips around the syllables, and I think that may be correct. ‘Odette’ was as foreign to you as the story of the Swan Princess was.” The prisoner’s voice was calm and light now, non-threatening. It didn’t have to be; the way this woman saw through Emma's meagre defences was frightening enough. Nothing escaped her attention, and Emma was suddenly very self-conscious. 

“I don’t have to tell you my name.” She gritted out with anger born of insecurity, and the prisoner tilted her head, long and tangled hair shifting across green linen as she shrugged. 

“No, you do not, but if you don’t, I won’t tell you mine… and you are dying to know what it is, aren’t you? You’ve been thinking about it since you left—been thinking about me. I can see it in your eyes. You could not wait to get back to me and learn more of my secrets.” The prisoner taunted her, and Emma tried not to show how right she was.   
“I thought about the story, not _you_ ” She gritted out, mortified she even admitted to that much. A strong eyebrow cocked in amusement.

“Is that so, little swan?” She asked, and Emma had to look away in fear of the brunette reading too much into her eyes.

“My name is Emma, and I remember the story because I think my mother read it to me when I was little.” Emma finally admitted brokenly, knowing she would not leave here without the prisoner’s name, and seeing no other way to get it. The jerky sound of chains being yanked forced her eyes back on the prisoner. Instinctively she took a step back at the fury and hatred that had suddenly come to the previously so controlled features.

“Get out.”

The words were forced from between locked jaws, hissed in complete disgust. Emma’s eyes widened in the face of so much dark focused on her. 

“Wha…? What? No! You said if I told you my name, you would tell me yours!” Emma pleaded. She had missed something, somewhere. She had upset the dark prisoner, and it bothered her more than she was willing to admit.

“Get. Out. Now!” The prisoner hissed again, hands clutching the bars so tightly they had gone white. Emma took a step forward, but paused as the prisoner’s head tilted forward almost imperceptibly but the meaning was clear: get closer, and I will rip your throat out. 

“What happened? What did I say? I-I… why does my name matter so much?” Emma tried again, and this time the darkness fractured a little, although the hate still oozed from her in waves.

“It is not the name, _princess_.” The prisoner spat, and for the first time, Emma did not know if the brunette was talking about her or using Odette’s title to address her. It unnerved her that this level of hatred could be projected onto her simply because of who she was, but if the prisoner _did_ know who she was, Emma was in for a world of trouble—and perhaps the brunette’s anger wasn’t as unjustified as she had assumed. It were Emma’s parents, after all, who had locked the woman away. 

“Then what?” Emma challenged, stepping a bit closer again, although well out of reach of the brunette, who was safely locked away behind a very thick door. The brunette reeled herself in a little, taking a deep breath. Her face and hands relaxed, but her eyes were still murderously dark.

“I think it’s time you told me a story, _Emma_. Tell me the story of Snow White and Prince Charming. Tell me about the Evil Queen.” The woman challenged, and realization scratched at the back of Emma’s mind.

“She’s dead.” Emma whispered, and the predatory smile that came to the woman’s features at that was the most chilling thing Emma had seen of her so far; it was toothy and deadly, and it made sweat break out on Emma’s back as she realized for the first time in how much danger she actually was.

“So, that is the story these days?” The woman asked, her voice hard as blades. “The Evil Queen is dead, and precious Snow White has saved the day?”

Emma nodded, not trusting her voice as a trickle of sweat ran down her back and made her shiver. She needed to get out of her, but for entirely different reasons than the first time. Now, her life was in danger. If the stories were to be believed, the Evil Queen was unstoppable. Emma paused at that. Unstoppable? No, here she was, locked away in a cell for… oh Gods…

“How long have you been here?” She asked, the dread evident in her voice, and the Evil Queen flinched back at that, a hint of surprise on her features that distorted the darkness into pain.

“How old are you, princess, because I was there when you were born, before your parents managed to overtake me with fairy magic and a dark curse of their own. I have been in this cell one day shorter than you have been alive.” The prisoner spat, and Emma’s eyes widened, recognizing the pain and desperate loneliness within the woman now—emotions that had transmuted into hate. She felt compelled to answer the rhetoric question, just because it was the right thing to do… somehow.

“I’m eighteen. My birthday was a week ago.” She said softly, and the Evil Queen’s head fell against the bars a moment as she absorbed the news. Once she looked back up, the mask was in place again—calm, collected, and taunting.

“That is undoubtedly why I have been feasting on swine and raisin bread.” She said quizzically, and Emma’s face contorted in confusion without her say-so. “I know what you eat, my dear princess, because the only thing that your parents have done right is feed me well. For eighteen years—” a crack of her voice in realization, “…they have fed me very well. Scraps off of _your_ table, but still. Are you a fan of peas, Miss Swan? Because I am not.”

“No.” Emma admitted, trying to wrap her head around the situation—her parents, her goody-good, whiter-than-snow-parents had kept a woman locked away in a prison cell for eighteen years. “Wait… if you’re the Evil Queen—”

“My _name_ is Regina. ‘Queen’ was my title, until Snow White added ‘Evil’ to it.” Regina corrected with a sneer, and Emma sighed. 

“Fine, if you’re Regina… how come you look younger than my parents…?” She asked, and Regina laughed at that, although Emma was not sure it was meant as an actual laugh or an insult.

“That would be the curse your parents placed upon me. You see, I had planned to curse _them_ ; to take everything away from them that they had gained through deceit and betrayal. They, however, struck a deal with a very powerful man, and a very powerful woman, and their magic was enough to overtake me. They had planned to put me under a sleeping curse, I am quite sure, but I am—and always was—too powerful for that. Not even the Dark One and the Blue Fairy could do that to me. They subdued me long enough to imprison me, however, and put this band around my wrist. It blocks my magic from manifesting, but it is _right here_ , at my fingertips, regardless. It’s the magic that is keeping me so…well-preserved.” Regina spoke, a note of genuine glee in her voice at the last sentence as she held up her wrist, showing off a shining cuff with foreign inscriptions. 

Emma swallowed heavily. The brunette was not lying—not a single word. Of course, truths were in the eye of the beholder, but things like contracts, magic, and imprisonment were such clear terms they were hard to twist into truths if they had started out as falsehoods. Emma felt the ground fall away under her feet: her parents had lied to her her whole life, and she hadn’t realized it. Maybe her parents had come to believe the story themselves or maybe—because she had been told the lie since childhood—it didn’t register as a lie anymore. The Evil Queen was not dead; she had been imprisoned for eighteen years, chained and forgotten. 

“Why?” Emma asked fighting tears that Regina seemed to find great amused fulfilment in. “Why did you want to curse my parents?”

“Not so much your parents, dear—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Alright, _Emma_ then. Not so much your parents, but your mother. Tell me, what do you know about me?” Regina asked. “Do you know I cared for your mother when she was younger? Good. How about my childhood? Do you know anything about that?” Regina asked and Emma was getting sick and tired of questions being answered with counter-questions.

“I think my mom said it wasn’t a very happy one?” Emma tried, hoping to hurry the conversation along. Her head was already swimming. Regina laughed and pressed her face up against the bars.

“Your mother was right.” She withdrew a little, and set her jaw. “Let me tell you the story of another princess, _princess_. Her name was Regina, and she grew up in a palace not too far from here. It is abandoned now, unless your parents sold it, but it was owned by my father’s family. He was a prince, the fifth son of King Xavier. Regina was a cheerful child who only longed to be free. Tragically, her mother had different wishes for her. Her mother was obsessed with power—she had grown up poor and with the help of Rumpelstiltskin, she had managed to convince the father of a prince to give her his son’s hand in marriage. Regina’s mother was a very smart, very evil, woman, and she did everything she could to make sure Regina would have more than she herself had ever had—because she saw true happiness in political and magical power.”

Emma listened silently as the words fell from stiff lips without faltering, and despite Regina’s best efforts to cover it, she could hear the pain in the words, especially as the tale unfolded.

“Regina was a quiet girl, positive and happy despite growing up in a dark home. One day, when Regina was your age, she fell in love with a very handsome man—a stable boy named Daniel. They had to keep their relationship secret, because Regina knew her mother would not approve. One day, when out on the grasslands, Regina heard the shout of a frightened child and looked up to find a young princess holding on for dear life as her horse ran away with her. Regina realized that the child would die if she did not safe her, and so she did. Little did she know then that it was her mother who had orchestrated the entire event.” A deceptively gentile smile came to Regina’s features at that, but it was obvious recounting her story was painful for the tormented brunette.

“The girl was named Snow White, and her father was very grateful that her life had been saved. You see, Regina’s mother had recently committed another atrocity; she had murdered Snow White’s mother, even though no one was aware of this at the time. King Leopold, now a widower, saw in young Regina a new mother for his daughter, and he proposed to her not long after. Princess Regina did not want to wed the King, however. She had never craved power; all she wanted to do was marry her stable boy and get away from her mother and her father, who let Cora abuse their child. Regina fought the events that unfolded, but Cora accepted the King’s marriage proposal, and Regina’s world collapsed in on itself.”

“One night, before the wedding, Princess Regina met Daniel in the stables: they were going to run away together, and in their moment of happiness, they kissed and were caught by a young Snow White, who wanted nothing more than to have a mother again. Regina pleaded with young Snow not to tell Cora about Daniel, and Snow White promised. Yet, she did tell Regina’s mother about the stable boy, and Cora ripped out the poor boy’s heart and crushed it, ensuring Regina did not have a reason to run away—nor support to do so.” The level of hate and anguish now barely veiled that clung to the words had Emma look away in shame—shame of her family line, shame of her mother, even though she doubted Snow White had meant any harm by telling Cora.

“She didn’t mean to…” Emma tried, dragging her eyes back, and Regina’s eyes became narrow slits as he jaw set.

“Oh, she meant to. Your mother was a spoiled little brat, Emma. Eva, her mother, gave her everything her little heart desired, and the King continued to do so until the day he died. Snow White wanted a mother and when she realized I was going to run away, she made sure I would stay. She knew perfectly well what she was doing.” Regina assured her, and Emma knew that the former Queen believed her own words completely.


	6. Chapter 6

They were still standing in the small space, a single thick wooden door between them, and Emma was still listening to word after painful word that the prisoner—Regina, the Evil queen—was speaking. She had yet to detect a lie, and there was very little in her world not in turmoil right now. Yes, Regina’s actions were evil—she had killed a man—but Emma found herself surprisingly sympathetic to her story. This was the story of a woman who had never stood a chance against the forces of evil… how was she going to judge her at all?

“What happened next?” Emma questioned, wanting to hear the whole truth now she was being given it so freely. Regina sighed and for a moment Emma feared Regina would stop here, that she would retreat into the cell and leave Emma standing—but dark eyes connected with hers and Emma could see the loneliness hidden in the dark, the long years of isolation weighing down on a tortured soul, and she knew instinctively Regina wouldn’t stop now; she finally had an audience, and one she could hurt with her story, even. Regina’s head dipped. 

“Next were long years in which Queen Regina played wife to a king and mother to a treacherous princess. She cried every day and thought about killing herself a lot. Then, she thought better of herself as she encountered a man she had never met—an enchanter—named Rumpelstiltskin. He appeared to the queen after she spoke his name from the spell book she had stolen off of her mother, in the hopes of fighting her mother’s hold on her and bringing back Daniel from the dead, whose body Regina had preserved. The strange enchanter promised to teach her magic, and gave her a magic mirror which was actually a portal to a new land. Young Regina managed to push her mother through it, and thus freed herself of the first person in her life to abuse her.” Dark eyes met Emma’s then, and Emma swallowed, unsure of how to react to a story like this—a story so far removed from the way her life had been that it was impossible for her to imagine.

“The queen tried to return the spell book to Rumplestiltskin, because she felt she did not need it anymore, but he would not let her return it. Instead, he told her she was powerful, that she could free herself completely. She would only have to learn good spells, and perhaps, one day, the people would come to love her for the goodness in her heart. Regina accepted the proposal, and committed to her studies, but it soon became clear that Rumplestiltskin was not a good man at all. He made her prove her commitment to magic and him by ripping out the heart of a young girl, and she did it… because performing magic made her feel better than she had ever felt in her life, and because she had finally lost the one good thing still in her life: her hope that one day, she would be able to bring Daniel back to life. Angry and in pain, Queen Regina killed the young girl and proved her loyalty to Rumpelstiltskin, and in that moment, she was lost.” Regina was not looking at her now, and the tension in the frame of the brunette was clear even with the bad lighting. Genuine regret and the pain of innocence lost clung to the words, and Emma had to restrain herself from walking forward and resting a hand on fingers still around the bars.

“With a mind clouded by magic and anger, Queen Regina put into motion a new plan: to rid herself of her husband. King Leopold was not a bad man, but he did take things from Regina she did not want him to take—her freedom, her body—and she had come to hate him very much. One day, a genie came to the palace, and Regina faked her affection for him, using him to smuggle poisonous snakes into the king’s bed chambers. For a moment, Regina had considered letting the snakes kill her instead, but her need for revenge was too great. The snakes killed the king, and the second person to abuse Regina was now dead.” Regina continued, and the pain left her voice for anger. Emma shivered at the cold demeanour of the brunette, but could not shake her empathy. If pushed so far, would Emma do the same thing? Would she have killed herself instead? Or would she have resigned herself to her fate? Without her consent, worries over her own impending marriage—arranged or chosen—sprung up in her mind and she forced the thoughts down before they could choke her. She poured all of herself into listening to the prisoner’s story, and hoped the words would drown out her own panic. The next words out of the prisoner’s mouth, however, stopped Emma’s blood cold in her veins.

“There was only one more person between Queen Regina and her freedom now: Snow White, and thus, Regina enlisted the help of a huntsman. You should know, Emma, that despite her rightful claim to the throne, the people never accepted Regina as their queen; Snow White’s beautiful face and easy light demeanour made _her_ the person people sided by. Regina never cared about ruling, but she did want to be loved… and respected. The huntsman lay eyes on Snow White and found he could not kill her. Yet, he tried to trick the queen by saying he had and presenting her with the heart of an animal. Regina saw through this ruse and punished him for his insolence—for his disrespect. She took his heart, and bound him to her.” There wasn’t pride in Regina’s voice, but no regret either; it was blank, with a touch of anger and a hint of pain, and Emma wondered how dark Regina’s head-space had to have been to send a hunter after a teenager. She had heard her mother’s version of this part of the tale, and found it similar enough to believe Regina’s retelling. The story had been easier to swallow back when Emma hadn’t know about the Evil Queen’s far more evil past, however.

“The queen searched the land, commanding the people to tell her where Snow White was, but they all resisted her. None would tell their rightful queen the truth, and it hurt her very much. Once day, she got so angry that she had her guards slaughter every man, woman, and child of a village that had harboured Snow White. It was an act she forever wished she could undo, but she could not. Through magic, she was with Snow White when the latter discovered what the Queen had done, and Regina could see in Snow White’s eyes then that there would never be redemption for her. Just before that discovery, she had been about to beg for Snow White’s forgiveness for what she had done to her, because deep down, the queen was still the good princess desperate to be loved… but in that moment, she knew she never could.” A single tear slid down a dirty cheek, dragging a line through dust and ash. Emma’s heart clenched dangerously in her chest, and she had to look away so she would not start to cry in sympathy. She wasn’t sure if the brunette deserved that.

“There was only one thing left to do, then, at least in the mind of the queen: punish the Kingdom if redemption was not possible. She intensified the hunt for Snow White, and made her life a living hell by constantly hounding her, making it clear that if she surrendered to the queen, no one else would be harmed. Snow White never did—until her True Love David was captured by a king and traded for riches to Queen Regina. Regina then gave Snow White an ultimatum: submit herself to a seeping curse by eating one of Regina’s apples, or David would die. Snow White did, and Regina was relieved, knowing she finally had her revenge, and could now begin to live the life of freedom she had always envisioned.” Regina was looking at her now, judging her reactions, but Emma wasn’t even sure herself what she was emoting; she was confused and wished desperately she hadn’t known any of this. 

“My father woke my mother, didn’t he?” Emma asked, and Regina’s features darkened. 

“Yes.” She answered. “He did. He woke her, and thus started the war: your parents begun to fight back. They took over King George’s kingdom, the man who had adopted your father as his own son, and took control of his armies. Eventually, Queen Regina was captured and nearly executed, but Snow White stopped the archers. Snow White gave Regina a chance for redemption, but the queen was too angry and too hurt to take it. She tried to kill Snow White—again—and was exiled. She resigned to her fate, knowing that her enemy was too powerful to hurt now, but then came Rumpelstiltskin, who promised her a way to get revenge through magic: a dark curse that would guarantee her happy ending. His words were so tempting to the exiled and former queen that she latched onto them, letting Rumpelstiltskin spin her mind in such a way that she would cast the curse he had created. In order to do it, however, she had to kill the one thing that she loved most.” Regina’s tone had become hard and mocking now, obviously angry at herself for falling for—what would turn out to be—a ploy to defeat her once and for all.

“She ended up killing two things to cast the curse: her beautiful horse Rocinante, the only thing she had left to remind her of Daniel, and her father, whose heart would eventually put into action the curse. Knowing her power, however, she wanted to rid another world of one more darkness before she ended this one; a loose end, if you will: her mother Cora. She enlisted help to have Cora brought to her, but as it turned out, she was already dead. Seeing her mother in her coffin hurt Regina more than she had thought possible after all these years, but as her mother had always told her: love is weakness. With her mother dead, she would not have a single weakness left, and she was free to cast the curse that would create a happy-ever-after for her.” Regina said, the anger still in her voice, although mentioning both her horse and her father had brought out another few tears that had dripped down into the darkness below. Emma swallowed and waited, because in the next part would be the truth about the lie her parents had told her.

“Little did Regina know that Rumpelstiltskin had always planned to have Regina cast the curse. At first he had thought that he would let it transport him and everyone else to a new land—a land where his son resided, but it seemed he had grown impatient. And so, when your parents presented him with a proposition, he accepted. They agreed that if they would aid him by any means necessary in securing his son, he would re-write the curse and have Regina cast a curse upon herself. And so it was that when the queen invaded your parents' palace and the curse swirled around her, it did not take them all to a new land—instead, it paralyzed the queen and allowed the Blue Fairy to bind her magic by way of a manacle.” A clang as the thick bracelet was slammed against the bars. Emma gasped and flinched, stepping back subconsciously at the sudden gesture. Yet, her eyes were drawn to the iron ring fastened securely around a thin wrist. Dangling from it was a chain that ran down into the darkness, undoubtedly the source of the scraping noise Emma had become so familiar with. 

“And so, I eventually came to be here, in this cell. I have not spoken to your parents in all that time, nor seen anyone but the guard who brings me my food and the few luxuries I am allowed… and now you are here, Princess Emma, daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. How perfect your life must be. Tell me, did any of your lessons cover my story?” Regina asked, mockingly, and Emma huffed, covering her insecurity and swimming head with gruffness she did not feel. She felt small, and vulnerable, and very, very, confused.

“I was told about the Evil Queen who was killed erecting a terrible curse. I was told my parents are heroes.” Emma pressed. Regina considered that.

“I suppose they are, in a way. They did save the Kingdom from my wrath. It’s a shame, though, that my wrath was well-deserved.” Regina answered lightly, and Emma squinted in confusion.

“I understand why you did what you did… but I don’t think it was deserved.” She answered quietly, and the danger returned to the former Queen’s features. Emma brought her hands up placatingly. “No, listen, I know that it was logical at the time and I’m not taking the side of my parents, but… you could have just… If you had been clear of mind… it wouldn’t have had to come to this.” Emma tried.

“If your mother would have kept her mouth shut and would not have chosen her own happiness over mine, I would have been gone. I would have lived a life of love with the man I loved, somewhere far away from anyone else. I never wanted to rule, Emma. I just wanted to be free. I wanted to love and be loved in return. I have had eighteen years to consider my actions and I do not regret them. I had no choice in doing what I did. Not if I wanted to live—and I did. That, perhaps, is my biggest crime: wanting to live when everyone else sought to drive me into death.” Regina challenged, and Emma sighed. 

“It doesn’t make it right.” She answered, and Regina released the bars, stepping back from the door a little.

“Of course it does not.” Regina agreed moodily, and Emma ran a hand over her hood, drawing it back so she could run her hands through her hair. Regina’s eyes settled upon her again, and studied her. 

“You look so much like your parents… yet you have hair the colour of gold.” A surprisingly soft smile came to Regina’s lips as she reached for the bars again. Emma fought the urge to stuff her hair back under her hood at the intensity of Regina's gaze—a gaze that made her shiver from the inside out. “Your mother was always deemed the fairest of the land. No one could touch upon her beauty. You might, you know? Tell me, have you wedded yet, have you produced offspring for the continuation of the crown?”

“Why do you want to know?” Emma questioned uncomfortably, knowing this was a ruse of some sort, but unable to figure out exactly what it was.

“Honest curiosity.” Regina promised, and Emma arched an eyebrow. Now it was Regina’s turn to hold up her hands placatingly. “I promise, I am merely curious. As you can imagine, you are the first person in years who has spoken to me, and I have been alone with my own thoughts for a very long time. I am fairly certain I know everything that is available to me in my own head. It would be nice to hear and be able to think about something new; a small luxury in the dark.”

Emma couldn’t detect a lie in her words, but she was still not appeased. This entire exchange had left her with so much to think about, and she wondered how much time had passed. Her parents would undoubtedly be back from their Ogre hunt soon, and they would start to look for her. Sighing, she bit her lip, a nervous habit.

“I should go.” She said, dodging the question, and dark eyes fell heavily upon her, studying her face, her hair, her body, as if Regina imprinted it all in her memory. Emma shivered under the scrutiny—again. “I’ll try to come back.”

“We will see about that, now won’t we, princess?” Regina answered her lightly, but Emma could hear the undertone of doubt in the words. Obviously Regina had very little faith in Emma’s return, and she couldn’t really blame her. Not only had Regina already shared her story, but it was not a story that was easy to forgive, despite the extenuating circumstances. 

“I will.” She promised, and wondered why it was so important to her to actually make promises like these—promises she intended to keep. Why did she care about the woman who had made her mother’s life a living hell? Why was the story of the Swan Princess playing over and over in her mind? Emma sighed, and met Regina’s eyes one more time. She tried to impress upon her that she _would_ return, and then slid the hood back over her head. By the time she was done, the brunette had let herself be swallowed by darkness and the only thing Emma was left aware of was the dragging of iron chains over rough stone.


	7. Chapter 7

Facing her parents again after what she had just found out about them was one of the hardest things Emma had ever had to do. Not only were her parents in a rather dark mood over their latest campaign, but for the first time in her entire life, Emma couldn't look at them and just see her parents—the spell of innocence had been broken. She had to admit to herself that her parents were just people who made decision... and sometimes they were the wrong ones. They were all living with the consequences of those decisions every day. Emma wondered if it weighed on them.

The campaign against the Ogre had been a success, but one of the villagers had not survived, nor had the Ogre himself. Emma knew her parents preferred not to kill, but if they had done so now, it must have been unavoidable. Emma tried to comfort her parents with that knowledge while they suffered through dinner in near-silence, but they did not look or sound convinced. At least they did not inquire after her whereabouts today, nor about the storybook safely tucked away in her mother's hiding spot. The huge downside, however, was that Emma now had far too much time to look at her parents and think. She couldn't unsee a young version of her mother spilling Regina's secret to Regina mother, could not stop thinking about the way people took a natural liking to her—just like they did to Emma—nor stop herself from thinking back to times when her mother had made the people around her do something simply because it made Snow happy.

David, of course, was most often the one to give something up; little things like hunting trips because it upset Snow, or practice sessions because her mother wanted to spend time with him, but also big things like his father's palace and ruling those lands like they ruled over Snow's. David had always set aside his own needs and priorities in favour of those of Emma's mother and while Emma had always simply thought he did it because he was a wonderful man who loved her mother, she could not stop thinking about the self-centred focus of her mother now. The dresses Emma wore because her mother told her it was proper for a future Queen to do so, the wedding that still hung above her head like the sword of Damocles... little things that played through Emma's mind on a loop as she picked apart a baked potato she couldn't help but wonder if Regina would get served as well.

Whenever her mind veered away from her parents a moment, it returned to Regina, the woman who she previously thought had taken over her every waking and not-so-waking moment but whom Emma now thought about almost exclusively, proving she could become even more obsessed than before. Because the thoughts about her parents were linked into the thoughts about Regina as well—not to mention the marriage she would soon have to endure—there was no escaping the dark haired woman. Emma had come to realize that perhaps she didn’t want to stop thinking about her and that was why she couldn’t.

Emma knew she was lucky; unlike Regina, her parents were giving her space to fall in love on her own and find someone she actually wanted to marry. The fact that she hadn't yet was on Emma herself, not her parents. Still, she knew that her parents would eventually find her someone regardless of her affections for him; Regina was right, the Kingdom needed offspring, and with Emma being an only child, it was up to her to provide. Suddenly the potato and corn on her plate tasted even worse than they had done previously, and she had to force down the bite she had just added to the bite already in her mouth. Emma knew she couldn't leave the table without finishing her food today, not if she did not want her parents getting more suspicious than they already were… and so she chewed.

“Emma, dear, we have a guest coming over tomorrow who we would like you to meet. You will be here, yes? He is due to arrive at noon.” Snow interrupted her thought process, and Emma nodded, poking her food with her fork. Apparently, her parents were done brooding for now.

“Sure. Who is it?” Emma asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could actually say ‘no’. When her parents had people over, she was expected to be in attendance.

“His name is Baelfire; you’ve met him before.” Her mother informed and reminded her. Emma didn't even have to think about it, of course she knew Baelfire. She nodded, surprise plain on her features.

“The Dark One’s son…? Why is he coming?” She asked, dread settling in her gut. If her mother had invited a male over and she wanted Emma to be there, not much good could come of it. Not only that, but any mention of Rumplestiltskin now made her skin tingle very unpleasantly. She had met the Dark One a few times in her life, and he had always given her the creeps. Knowing that he had played both parties in the war and had tricked Regina into being bound for the next two decades did not settle well with her at all.

“The Dark One has always been an ally to our family, Emma. You will treat his son with the respect he deserves.” Snow White snippily reminded her, and Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes. Her mother was avoiding the question.

“Yes, mother.” She pressed, a little too disrespectfully, because now her father was glaring at her as well. “Sorry.” 

“Just be here at noon…” Snow imprinted on her tiredly and she nodded, the darkness pressing upon her only increasing in light of this new development. Moodily, Emma took another stab at getting through her food.

The rest of the meal, Emma was stuck jumping between two desires: to stay as far away from Baelfire as she could, simply because her parents saw him as marriage material, and trying to get him alone so she could ask him about the curse. Besides, it would be nice to see him again; he had been sweet to her when she was younger, and having those fun memories wrecked over the continuation of the throne… The thought provoked another heartfelt sigh.

Her dual feelings lingered throughout the evening, but her worries only increased as all her other worries slowly seeped back into her brain as well: wedding woes, her parents lying to her, the enigmatic brunette in the dungeon, Regina and Snow’s checkered past, and the Swan Princess story were all vying for attention. The endless cycle was starting to drive Emma insane. By the time she made it to bed, she had managed to wind herself up badly enough that she was crying tears of frustration that only served to make her feel worse. All in all, she was feeling like a stupid teenager and not at all like a princess—let alone a future queen. 

Her bare feet hit the rug before Emma was even aware she had made a decision. She didn’t pretend this time; she simply slid on the clothes from the bag in the back of the closet and drew the hood over her hair before she cracked the door to the hallways a little. She padded through the dark easily, knowing the palace like the back of her hand. Just to be sure, she made use of the secret passageway that stretched between the hallway at the back of the kitchens to the hallway nearest the stairs leading down into the armoury, allowing her to avoid the great hall. She couldn’t get caught, not now. Not now she was finally feeling a little better because she was going to talk to the one person who could ease her mind.

Sliding the armour stand out of place caused such a level of noise that it took Emma forever to inch it away from the hatch instead. In the dark, without the footfalls of the busy staff, the palace was far too quiet for this type of nonsense… yet Emma couldn’t stop herself. She would have gone crazy if she had remained in that bed, tossing and turning and envisioning every terrible scenario her head could come up with. At least now she was doing something semi-productive. Not that she knew _why_ she was going to Regina, of course—that would be too easy. Emma just figured Regina would know what to do… would be able to make everything better somehow. At least _she_ wouldn’t lie.

Her back was starting to get used to the monkey crawl Emma adopted in the tunnel, and by the time she found herself listening under the hatch, her back felt a lot less cramped up than it usually did. Standing up after sliding the hatch away was still a wonderful sensation, however, and by the time she had hoisted herself up, she already felt so much more settled than she had in bed that she wondered if she could just stay here. She wouldn’t have to talk to Regina, she could just sit down here and never leave again. She could just be alone and hide. Regina’s light was burning, though, and she had come all this way…

“Regina?” Her voice was soft, but it still fractured the silence far more violently than she had expected it to. Emma heard something falling and winced. “Sorry.” 

“Quite alright, Miss Swan…” Regina’s voice sounded, and the fingers that had become synonymous with the whole of the woman appeared around the bars. Emma found herself rushing forwards until she could look into dark eyes. Right away, she was fighting tears again, and she still did not know why. Regina regarded her quizzically, brows furrowed a little.

“Are you alright…?” She asked softly after a moment, and Emma shook her head, unable to lie while Regina always spoke the truth to her—when she had opened up to her so much a few short hours ago. Regina swallowed heavily, searching her eyes. Emma found herself fracturing because of the worry she found in them—worry, from the woman who just this afternoon had wanted to murder her simply for being who she was. She was reminded of the story Regina had told her about her own life and could envision Regina when she was Emma’s age, married off, having lost the love of her life, lonely in the palace, and she realized Regina wasn’t so much _worried_ about Emma but that she _related_ to her. When Regina forced her hand through the bars and extended it in Emma’s direction, Emma refused to give in to the screaming voice in the back of her brain that told her not to get too close. She rushed to the door and reached up so she could place her hand in Regina’s, clasping the hand tightly as Regina did the same. It seemed like something so natural to do, and the touch sent a bolt of lightning through her system strong enough to take her breath away.

Eyes met in the greatly diminished space between them, and Emma found the hand in hers trembling. How long had it been since Regina had felt the touch of another? Had it been eighteen years? How had Regina managed not to go insane in the quiet darkness of the cell? Regina’s face was unreadable, but the way her eyes refused to leave Emma’s told the blonde enough: this mattered, to both of them. Behind all the sass and anger, Emma could still hear that sigh in the darkness she had heard after being dismissed. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” The dark haired woman asked softly, and Emma bit her lip, the reality of their situation sinking in. This was insane: she was talking to a killer through a door. She was holding her hand—awkwardly due to the weird angle and the height—and for some reason being so close to the other woman was making Emma’s heart pound faster than it should and in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“It would be weird… and I’m sorry but… I’m not really sure you won’t, like, use it against me or hurt me.” Emma said, giving voice to her fears. She could see the woman’s lips set, and her hand was released. The walls came back up and Emma sighed, dropping her hand and stepping back. The spell was broken; they were a princess and a prisoner again. Silence settled between them, and Regina looked about ready to bolt inside and leave her alone out here, in the hall. Emma desperately wanted to stop that from happening.

“I’m supposed to marry. Soon. With any suitable candidate, really. I think my mother arranged some sort of date-thing with someone tomorrow. With Baelfire, the son of the Dark One?” Emma rattled off, her voice slightly too loud and shrill to sell she was unaffected by these events. Regina’s eyes focused on her again, and the hands clasped back around the bars. Feeling a weight lift off of her in the face of her confession, Emma stepped back and sunk to the floor, leaning back against the rock. Right away, the cold settled into her skin, reaching for her bones. She shivered, letting her head fall onto the arms wrapped around her drawn up legs. Speaking the words had made them real, and the fact that this was her reality made her want to cry. 

“I’m sorry.” The words were spoken completely without malice, and Emma lifted her head to meet dark eyes. 

“Thanks.” Emma said, and Regina nodded. Dropping her head again, the two fell silent. 

Despite her predicament and the cold which had overtaken her body completely by now, Emma felt far more at ease; the swirling storm inside her head had settled to the point where she could think rationally again. She no longer felt like she was on the edge of a panic attack and her hand still tingled pleasantly from Regina’s touch. Something that had been nagging at her suddenly became obvious, and she lifted her head again. Regina was still standing motionless at the door, eyes on her, soaking in her presence. 

“You washed.” Emma deadpanned. Regina shrugged.

“I figured I might as well as your little visits were becoming a regular thing.” She admitted, and Emma smiled. Emma could see it now; Regina’s pale skin was clean, her fingernails almost entirely undone from their dark edges. Her hair was no longer matted; it was messy, but Regina had obviously spent time untangling it and she had even tied the upper layer back into a ponytail. She was even more beautiful without the dirt, Emma realized. The small flutter in her chest spooked her, but she let it go. Suddenly, Emma wondered what time it was.

“I should go.” Emma said regrettably, conscious of the fact she was repeating their last visit. Regina nodded.

“I understand.” Eyes met and held—they understood each other, the prisoner and the princess. Life would not be as bad for Emma as it had been for Regina, but she would still be forced into something she did not want. Regina understood how she felt, and she didn’t try to downplay it; she allowed Emma her fears and pains, and offered silent support even though she should be gleeful over her pain. Emma was quite sure she wasn’t, though. Regina didn’t seem like the type of woman to wish pain on anyone—not deep down, not with her mind clear of magic, not when she had no reason to hate.

Emma stayed where she was for several long moments more, then finally hoisted herself up, shaking herself out to get some heat and feeling back into her body. One more look and a shared smile and Emma headed for the drainage hole. 

“Emma…?” The word sounded fragile, and Emma spun around at the sound. She couldn’t see Regina’s face anymore, but she saw her fingers. 

“Yes?” She asked softly.

“Thank you… for coming back.” She could barely hear Regina—even in the silent hall—and the words sounded as if they had been spoken with great difficulty; a sign of weakness that Regina allowed herself out of desperation. It was _that damn sigh_ all over again. Emma felt tears prick against her eyes, and she had to take a steadying breath before she could get her voice to function.

“No problem.” She answered neutrally, but inside of her, an entirely different kind of turmoil was brewing. Regina’s pain and vulnerability—not to mention her compassion and honesty—summoned things in Emma no one had ever summoned in her before, and she realized she did not have the emotional maturity to label it. All she knew was that it helped ease the worry and the panic inside of her, and that was enough. She slipped into the hole and pulled the cover over it with practiced ease. 

By the time she made it back into bed, the glow of dawn was already colouring the sky outside of her windows. She pulled her blankets tighter around her, finally warming up a little, and realized she was tired and relaxed enough to sleep. She didn’t think of her worries once as she drifted off; they had been magicked away by soft brown eyes and a softer smile, by a quiet ‘thank you’ that Emma would never be able to forget, and by the memory of a cold and trembling hand in hers.


	8. Chapter 8

Her ancient nanny and handmaid Johanna woke her after what felt like ten minutes of blissful, blissful, sleep. Emma loved Johanna very much; she had been there for her her entire life—just like she had been there for her mother and her grandmother—but right now, she wished she was in a position to throw the elderly woman out of her rooms and bar her from ever entering again. Emma functioned best on ten hours of solid sleep, and she had barely gotten a fraction of that.

“Whattimeisit…?” She slurred, then groaned and curled up into a foetal position as Johanna pulled the covers off of her nightgown-clad figure. She whimpered. “Cold…” 

“Oh come now, Princess Emma, it is an hour to noon. You are sleeping the day away and Sir Baelfire will arrive soon. I have made you a bath in the other room and laid out your clothes. It’s a beautiful day; time to participate in it.” Johanna answered her far too cheerfully and Emma pushed her head under her pillow before that too was pulled away. With a sigh, she rolled onto her back on the bare mattress and opened a single eye to a tiny slid. Johanna hovered over her with her ever-present smile and Emma closed her eye again; she hadn’t slept long enough for this. Not at all.

“Breakfast is on the table—try not to spill any of it on your dress—and your parents are expecting you in the throne room in half an hour. So up, up, princess. Now, please.” Emma let herself be manhandled into a seated position and glared angrily at the woman who was only getting rounder and rounder as the years went by. Johanna had the tendency to ramble, causing Emma to tune her out most days—today, however, she tried to store the information that Johanna chattered at her. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t be late to this meeting; her mother would give her _that look_ for weeks, and her father would have her do laps around the courtyard in full body armour until she dropped. 

She allowed Johanna to help her get her nightgown off and then stumbled naked into the side-room where a tub of water was, indeed, waiting for her. With a groan, she lowered herself into it and felt every muscle that had cramped up from crawling through tunnels and sitting on the cold floor relax as the heat washed over her. Her tranquillity was rudely fractured when Johanna emptied a pitcher of hot water over her head and soaked her curls. Sputtering, she opened her mouth to complain but shut it once she realized she felt a lot more awake. She allowed the older woman to take a rough hold of her head and lather her hair with the special shampoo her parents only brought out when something major was happening. She’d smelled like vanilla and lime-tree blossom for weeks already during her birthday party, and she was not happy to be smelling like it again.

The second pitcher of water caught her by surprise again and she groaned pathetically as she tried to rub the water from her eyes. She was finally awake enough to realize that if this meeting required the fancy shampoo, it was a big deal—and that did not sit well with her at all.

“Alright, princess, are you awake enough to wash yourself or would you like me to do it?” Johanna questioned with a smug grin, and Emma’s eyes widened. “Oh, don’t look at me like _that_ , I’ve been washing your bottoms since you were a baby. There is nothing I haven’t seen before, on you or your mother.”

“Thanks for that image.” Emma sputtered darkly, and Johanna smiled teasingly. Emma returned the gesture; she could never stay mad at her nanny for too long—even if the woman interrupted her very pleasant rest.

“Am I to understand you will wash and clothe yourself, then?” Johanna teased, and Emma nodded vehemently. 

“Yes. Got it. Thanks. Would you please tell my parents I will be there in a quarter hour?” Emma requested and Johanna nodded, drying her arms and hands on her skirt and rolling down her sleeves. Johanna looked like a warrior who had returned from the front triumphantly. Emma huffed, but her gruffness was fully played.

“Of course, Princess Emma.” Johanna answered and bowed lightly before exiting the room, closing the door behind her to give Emma the privacy she had previously violated. Yawning, Emma located the soap and took care of cleaning the rest of her body before emptying the last pitcher over her head and getting out of the tub. She towelled herself down drowsily and searched around for the dress that had supposedly been laid out for her. She found it hanging from her standing mirror; a cotton candy pink affair with a shimmer to it. Right away, Emma lost her appetite. Did they really expect her to wear this? She would look like a… well… a princess—but not in the good way. Shuddering, Emma made a face. It took her only a few seconds to discard the idea of wearing the monstrosity. 

Turning to her closet, she dug around until she found a green cotton dress that was elegant enough to appease her parents but simple enough not to make her feel like a fairy—like such a damn _girl_. Slipping it on and fumbling with the tiny buttons on the side for a moment, she let her eyes roam the closet for a belt. She eventually settled on one of her sword belts, slipping it on, securing it and running the end under the leather before pushing it through the loop created between the clasp and the leather itself. She shifted it to her side until the leather strap hung down her hip. Checking her appearance in the mirror, she was happy to say she looked like a fancy version of a bandit—well, once she would get her hair sorted.

It took her ten more minutes to prepare and eat the jam and bread supplied to her—meaning she was running late. She raced into her laced up dark brown riding boots and then out of her room, dodging servants with quick apologies as she descended the stairs and rushed into the great hall. Her parents were already seated on their thrones in the back of the hall, and they were obviously not happy. Sighing, Emma forced herself to slow down into a steady walk as she met the eyes of the rest of the people assembled. This really was a big deal, Emma realized, if two advisors, the court historian and all heads of the military and personal guard were in attendance, standing from their chairs as Emma entered, then sitting back down around the table they had been occupying. The table was a flexible addition to the room, and it only appeared there when her parents had a meeting they wanted no one to overhear—with the double doors closed, there was no way to listen in on what was being said inside the hall; Emma had tried any way she could think of and had failed every single time.

Emma met her dad’s eyes in confusion, but even he wasn’t looking to give her a clue. He nodded at her, but his jaw was set with either nerves or anger, Emma wasn’t sure. Fine, she’d find out soon enough. She crossed the room and ascended the steps as regally as she could. Sitting down next to her mother in the smallest throne up on the platform overlooking the table and its occupants, Emma watched as the quiet conversation started up again. She smoothed out her dress awkwardly and bit her lip.

“You are late, and you are not wearing the dress I had you made.” Snow accused under her breath, her eyes firmly forward. Glancing at her mother, Emma sighed.

“I did not feel like dressing up today. Sorry about being late.” Emma muttered in reply, making her position very clear on both topics. Snow sighed her ‘defeated and annoyed mother’-sigh, and Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes. She was going to hear about this again soon, but right now, a single trumpet sounded from the courtyard and her parents shared a look that had Emma’s breakfast leap up in her stomach. She suddenly realized that this was about more than getting her a man. Something was going on… and judging by the faces around the table which had suddenly turned serious, it wasn’t good. For the first time, Emma took in all of the faces in the room.

At the front of the table was Sir Elyan the White, head of the Royal Guard, a middle-aged knight who—or so Emma was told—had assisted Lancelot in rescuing Guinevere. Galahad—who definitely was not as dead as the stories made him out to be—was sitting to his left as Elyan's right hand man. Next to him sat Graham Humbert, the huntsman who had let Snow White live all those years ago and who was now head of the Palace Guard. Archimedes, her mother's grumpy and older than dirt historian sat on his perch on the table, his cute owl face tilted to the side a little as he spoke with the first person on the other side of the table: Iron John—no longer iron-skinned—who had become somewhat of an expert on transmutive curses after breaking his own. The sole woman seated at the table was talking to her husband Robin: Maid Marian, who handled a bow almost as good as Snow and who—along with her husband—were frequent visitors of the palace and advisors on all things forest and far reaches of the Kingdom. The only people she was missing for a war counsel were Aunt Red and the Blue Fairy; even the Dark One would soon be represented. Emma swallowed and looked over at her mom.

“What’s going on?” She questioned under her breath. Snow’s eyes rested on her a moment, and the worry was plain to read in them. “Mom?”

“Once introductions are made, you’re going to excuse yourself. You have the rest of the day off, until dinner for which Baelfire will join us. Your father and I do not want to worry you, so please, have fun this afternoon. We will… talk, soon.” Snow impressed on her, and Emma’s eyes bulged.

“What?!” Emma tempered her voice once she realized a few of the other people in the room had turned to look at her. “What…? You want me to go? I’m eighteen! I can be here for this meeting. I’m supposed to become the Queen, right? I should be here, in the loop on whatever is going on!”

“Emma, be quiet. You will be informed when we decide you are ready. For now, you have the day off. Enjoy it. All that we ask is that you entertain Baelfire outside of this hall and you behave like the adult you are.” The implied ‘ _not the child you’re presenting as now_ ’ was clear. Emma gritted her teeth and leaned back in her chair, hands balled into fists at her side.

“Fine.” She agreed, fuming, and waited for the man and the usual entourage who the trumpeteer had announced. The man arrived, the entourage not so much; Baelfire was alone, and he looked determined. Unlike many of the men and women around the table, Baelfire wore his worry plain on his features—and managed to look in control of the situation, regardless. His riding cloak soon found its way into the arms of a servant and Emma had the opportunity to get her first look at the man she had seen regularly when she was eight, during the Uprising, but only very sporadically afterwards. 

Baelfire still wore his hair long, tied back into a loose ponytail. He’d gotten older but was still handsome. She had to fight a smile when she remembered the hero’s crush she’d had on him when she was younger. He had let her ride his horse and if she remembered well, he had even engaged her in a sword fight then, besting her easily but ultimately letting her win. He must be in his thirties now, she mused, and last she heard, he travelled the lands on behalf of his father. Marriage to him did not sound too appealing for reasons she couldn’t quite put into words, but she tried not to think about that for now; there were more pressing issues on the table.

“Queen Snow, King David.” Baelfire greeted with a bow that blew out his wide cotton shirt once he found himself in front of the steps leading up to the thrones. Her parents nodded. Emma just sat up straight and tried to look royal.

“Baelfire; welcome to the Enchanted Forest and our home. Thank you for meeting us on such short notice. You have met our daughter Emma, have you not?” Snow greeted formally, and Baelfire finally graced Emma with a smile and a lighter bow. She smiled back involuntarily; he had a pretty smile and kind eyes, and she _had_ liked him when she was eight—just more as someone she wanted to _be_.

“Of course. Princess Emma, I apologize for not attending your birthday festivities. Other endeavours—” His eyes shot to Snow at this. “…kept me occupied.”

“Quite alright, Sir Baelfire. You are here now, and I look forward to tonight’s meal so we can discuss the years since we last met.” Emma responded, drawing heavily on her etiquette lessons. She could see by her mother’s relaxing posture she’d done well enough and thanked her lucky stars for that. She could use some redemption points. 

“As do I, princess.” Baelfire answered her with a wink that reminded Emma of playing hide and go seek with him, and then stood tall again. Her parents and Baelfire exchanged looks and Emma realized she was done for the day. Somewhat awkwardly, she cleared her throat.

“If you will excuse me, Queen, King, Sir, I have duties to attend to. I bid you a fruitful meeting.” She formulated and stood once her mother nodded her permission. 

“We shall meet again at dinner.” Baelfire said, and she curtsied lightly before crossing the large hall, nodding at the guards who pushed open the large wooden doors at the end before slipping through. With a sigh, she ascended the stairs to her bedroom, knowing it was going to be a long day, indeed, now she had even more to think about.


	9. Chapter 9

It took her about ten minutes to get bored with her book on sword fighting. It was interesting enough, but all Emma’s mind could focus on was a jumble of worries. This was quickly becoming the status quo for Emma and it annoyed her to no end. The majority of her brainpower was dedicated to the meeting going on downstairs. Going over the laundry list of people in attendance, Emma was confidently able to deduce that whatever was happening was worrisome enough for her parents to assemble some of the people they trusted most in the Kingdom, but because her aunt wasn’t there, nor the Blue Fairy—and a few others whom Emma remembered from the many similar meetings ten years ago—Emma suspected it was more of a pre-war counsel; a place to share worries and think up pre-emptive strategies and contingency plans. At least her lessons in battle strategy were paying off well enough for her to have this type of insight into the situation.

Emma wasn’t over the fact that she had not been allowed to attend the meeting yet. Sure, when she thought about it _logically_ it made sense that her parents did not want to frighten her with maybe’s, but she was already feeling betrayed by them and this was not helping. Her ego did not appreciate the blow. How did they expect her to act like an adult when she wasn’t even given the chance? With a sigh, Emma let the book fall shut on the bed and rolled over onto her back. Staring up at the canopy, she tried to decide how to spend the rest of her day. She had the palace all to herself, but she didn’t dare to visit Regina, just in case her parents suddenly requested her attendance. Instead, Emma realized she could do something far more productive: dig into the Swan Princess story. 

Filled with renewed purpose, Emma scooted off of the bed and cracked open the door to the hallway. She traversed them easily, becoming more obviously careful once her parents’ rooms came closer. Again, she managed to slip in unseen, heart pounding in her throat. The book was still in the same place, wedged under the windowsill, and she grabbed it nervously. Quickly, Emma stuffed the red book inside the bodice of her dress, trusting the reinforced material would conceal the slight bulge. Her heart was pounding when she opened the door to the hallway, but the coast was clear. She slipped out, pulled the door shut and forced herself to stroll back to her rooms. As a precaution, she locked the door to her rooms. 

Exhaling in relief, Emma sat down on the bed and undid her boots before crawling up, crossing her legs as her back rested against the headboard. She drew up the covers and her sword fighting book and opened the latter to the page she had previously been studying, then she fished the leather bound book from within the confines of her dress and ran her fingers over the cover of it, smiling at the warmth it had absorbed from her skin. Carefully, she opened it to the cover page, once more reading the inscription. 

_C._ , Emma mused. That really could only be one person: Cora, Regina’s mother. Regina had said that Cora had gifted the book to her, right? Knowing what she knew about Regina’s mother, the inscription made sense as well; from what Regina had told her about the fairy-tale, the time Odette had spent as a swan was one in which she was powerless and trapped, while she had literally ruled as queen once the curse had been broken. Had Cora perhaps gotten the idea of instilling Regina inside the royal palace from the book, hoping she would fight herself to freedom with the book as inspiration? 

She begun to read the twenty page story meticulously and found that the premise worked for her mother as well; like Regina had said, she had been the catalyst for the events that had brought David and Snow together, playing the role of Evil Queen to Snow White like Rothbart to Odette. Like Rothbart, the Evil Queen had ended up dead—another bit of inspiration found, perhaps, in the story contained within these pages. Yet, she was not dead. She was very much alive, and Emma couldn’t help the flash of warmth that came over her when her mind conjured a vivid image of dark eyes drilling into her own from a minimal distance, and the gentle tremble of her hand clasped in Emma’s. Subconsciously, Emma cradled her own hand, lost in the memory for a moment and reliving the current that had passed between them at their touch. 

Emma had such a hard time superimposing the Evil Queen over the woman she was coming to know; the two seemed so far removed, even though Emma had seen the darkness in Regina. It wasn’t blind hate, though; Regina wasn’t evil. Regina was hurt and abused, and she had been unhappy to such a degree that she had been pushed to the limit. Everything that had followed after had been a reaction to those first formative events and Emma couldn’t help but be sympathetic… a little scared, but sympathetic. 

Regina had called her the Swan Princess as well, and there was truth in that; she was about to marry someone—possibly Baelfire, if her parents got their wish—whom she did not love. She would spend the rest of her life with the man her parents chose for her, and Emma’s mind couldn’t picture it. What would her life be, being married to Baelfire? Where would they live? Emma was supposed to become queen, so she had to remain here, hadn’t she? Would Baelfire move in here, join her in these rooms? From what she knew of him, Baelfire travelled the land almost full time to arrange affairs for his father, so he would rarely be home with her anyway. Would the Dark One move in here as well, along with his wife Belle? Now Emma really couldn’t picture the scenario in her head, and it actually became somewhat amusing—until she realized that it might actually happen.

If she _was_ the Swan Princess, there was going to be a rough time ahead; her own trial. She had to be the swan before she could be the queen. Unfortunately, this brought her full circle and once more, she found herself worrying about the meeting being held in the great hall. She was dying to know what was going on, but unless she could pry the information from Baelfire during dinner or some time tonight, she was going to have to wait until her parents deemed her ready to know. It was a frustrating experience, and it made Emma feel _young_. If there was one thing Emma hated, it was feeling young. Once she came to the end of the story, she shut the book and sighed. There was nothing new in it; Regina had recounted it perfectly.

A knock on the door disturbed her thoughts, and she hurriedly stuffed the book under the covers before slipping out of bed and unlocking the door, opening it to reveal Johanna with lunch. She accepted the tray gratefully, but frowned when Johanna pushed past her, setting her heavy frame down on the edge of the bed without asking permission to. Truthfully, though, Johanna hadn’t had to ask permission for pretty much anything since Emma was still very young. She did, usually, but it was a formality. When Johanna patted the spot next to her, Emma took a moment to contemplate her next move—very aware of the little red book so close to the older woman—then closed the door and sat where she was expected to sit, sliding the tray onto her nightstand and knocking over a variety of mementoes. She would get those later, she vowed, but knew she would probably forget.

“I hope you will forgive an old woman for being frank with her charge, Princess Emma, but I think we should have a bit of a talk.” Johanna started, and Emma felt herself flushing, well aware of the amount of secrets she was keeping that Johanna could potentially have found out about. 

“Okay…?” She answered a little hesitantly, and forced herself to keep quiet until she knew what her nanny was going to say. At this point, it could truly be anything, and Emma wasn’t sure she was going to enjoy whatever Johanna was going to bring up. Again, her heart was in her throat, and she knew she was probably blushing. Emma never had been very good at hiding her feelings.

“Now child, I’ve been watching you the last few weeks because I care about you, and I worry sometimes. I don’t want to stick my nose where it does not belong, but I think you need to hear a few words of wisdom from someone who has been around a lot longer than you have, my dear.” Johanna’s voice was soothing and chipper as always, and Emma found her nerves settle at least a little. Being watched, however, did not sit well with her at all.

“I’ve been with your family for most of my life, princess. I tended to Eva, then to your mother, and then to you. I have seen all of you mature and become queens in your own right. Do you know what the one thing is that I have learned from the experience?” The elderly woman asked, and Emma shook her head. 

“…I’ve learned that none of you royal bloods have a clue what you’re doing until you have done it, and then you make it seem like that had been the plan all along. Do not misunderstand me, princess, the people love all of you—with good reason!—and your family has ruled over them wisely for generations but what I mean to say is that it’s alright if you don’t know what is going to happen today or tomorrow, or in a year. You are a member of the royal family—whatever you do will be in the best interest of the people of the Kingdom; it’s in your blood. The Old Gods smile down on all of you.” Johanna promised. The blunt confession had Emma smile toothily—her first real smile in days. The words were oddly comforting, and she leaned into Johanna’s frame with a happy huff. Her secrets were safe, and maybe—maybe—she could rule as queen eventually.

“So my mom doesn’t always know what she’s doing either?” She asked, and Johanna snorted in amusement as she wrapped her arm firmly around Emma, pulling her closer. Emma happily inhaled the familiar scent of bread and soap, and allowed herself to be held.

“Your mother's mind is sharp as a whip, Princess Emma, and she has surrounded herself with some of the best and brightest—your father included—but she can’t see into the future and she can’t predict it either. Your mother does the best she can, and any decision she makes—including the ones concerning you—she makes in the best interest of her family and the people of the Kingdom. You need to put your faith in that and not work against her, alright?” Johanna pressed upon her, and Emma sighed.

“I know… I know… I’m just… It’s frustrating.” She admitted. 

“I know it is, princess, but one day, it will make sense, and one day it will work out. You’re just as smart as your mother, and just as brave. You will make a fine queen some day and I hope I will still be around to see it happen.” Johanna impressed upon her, and Emma felt tears prick against the back of her eyes.

“Thank you…” She answered, and meant it. It was strengthening to hear the woman who had been around to see two of her family line go through the same thing as she was going through put faith in her. She knew her mother wasn’t perfect—recent events had driven that home pretty permanently—but Emma had assumed Snow White herself had at least always known what she was doing. Snow was the queen, after all, and she had done very well in ruling over the Kingdom, especially during the Uprising of the Wolves. If events were heading towards another war, it wasn’t exactly comforting to know that Snow was just doing the best she could… but on a personal level, it made Emma feel better about her own insecurities and fears. Somehow, it legitimized them and made her feel more in control.

“Anytime, princess. Now, eat your lunch and then come help me in the kitchen. I can always make use of a potato peeler with your talent.” Johanna said and Emma groaned theatrically as she sat up again, letting Johanna pat her leg before the woman pushed herself up with effort and headed for the door. Without another word—but with a strengthening smile—her nanny disappeared, leaving Emma to a meal of fruit and salty cheese. She ate it in front of the window, looking out over the busy courtyard, enjoying the way life out there always continued in the same manner, despite the turmoil inside Emma’s head. 

She mulled over Johanna’s words and decided to come up with a plan; she was going to find a way to get Baelfire alone tonight and question him about the events of the afternoon… and perhaps even about the events that took place eighteen years ago. Baelfire had the answers to a lot of questions Emma needed answered, but he was also in close contact with her parents. She realized she would have to thread carefully, but if something was indeed happening in the Kingdom, then Baelfire’s knowledge was Emma’s ticket to being helpful—and proving her maturity. 

Talking to Baelfire had another complication; she still wasn’t sure about her mother’s intention concerning the Dark One’s son and her, but if a wedding was in the cards, Emma wasn’t sure what to think of it—of him. He was older than her, but that wasn’t really a problem; many princesses married older men, after all. What _was_ a problem was that in her head he had always been the man who had brought candy for her from faraway lands, who had told her stories of strange people and places, who had played with her when she was a child, and who had let her sit on his chest, wooden sword to his throat, as he shook with laughter over the intensity in her eyes. He was like an uncle she only saw on very rare occasions; he was family. The idea of marrying him was so foreign to her it was almost laughable. 

With a tired groan, she sucked on a strawberry and wished she could come up with an alternative to Baelfire. Fredrick II would be alright, she mused, but he was a brat, and he couldn’t hold his own with her when it came to sword fighting. None of the other kingdoms had children in her age category or even slightly above. Sighing, she popped the rest of the strawberry into her mouth and got up, putting the tray to the side for someone to collect later. This wasn’t helping, Emma realized. What would help was _doing_ something—anything—to get her mind off of her current situation and get through the day until she could try and charm Baelfire into spilling his secrets. Perhaps peeling potatoes for a while wasn’t a bad idea after all.

So it was that Emma found herself laughing with the kitchen staff after returning the book to her parents’ bedroom, peeling potatoes like she had done so often throughout her childhood—either as punishment or as a way to pass the time—and eating freshly baked bread with a finger-thick layer of butter until her belly ached. Peeling potatoes was therapeutic; it gave her something to do and the repetition cleared her mind enough to feel a little bit of her old and chipper self returning. Thoughts of marriages and war counsels were forgotten for a while, but lingering in the back of her mind were always those dark eyes and long fingers, and she made sure her potatoes were spotless, because maybe Regina would be eating them tonight as well.


	10. Chapter 10

They emerged from the great hall a little after the strike of seven, all looking worse for wear. Emma observed the members of the counsel from the shadows at the top of the stairs as they schmoozed and whispered, spreading out in pairs and groups, Archimedes flying off without delay to the tower room he occupied. The war council members weren’t looking very positive after six long hours of debate, and Emma felt the pang of worry settle more firmly in her gut. 

Her eyes found Baelfire as he emerged from the room, talking softly with Robin and Marian. She waited until they walked outside for some presumably much needed fresh air, and then rushed down the stairs. Her parents were wrapped up in a hug, being the only ones still left behind in the large room. Emma waited in the door opening for them to pull back and kiss gently, smiling through her mortification at seeing her parents be intimate with each other. Secretly, she quite enjoyed seeing the love her parents shared.

“How did it go…?” She asked timidly, and watched as her parent’s heads swung towards her rather amusingly. She smiled one of her more droopy smiles and her parents matched it, opening their arms for a hug she gladly accepted. Crossing to them, she quickly found herself engulfed in strong and loving arms that—despite everything—made her feel safe… made her feel home. She wrapped her arms around her parents in return and let her mother’s kiss in her hair and her dad’s hand on the back of her head lull her into thinking everything was alright.

“It went as well as was to be expected,” Snow answered her eventually, relief obvious in her voice. Emma hummed, held on a moment longer, then pulled back.

“I’m glad.” She answered gently and saw her parents relax when they realized she wasn’t going to inquire about the nature of the meeting.

“How was your day, princess?” David asked, ruffling her hair a little before letting go of her completely. Emma’s hands shot up automatically to smooth out her hair while she shrugged.

“I read some, had lunch, then helped Johanna in the kitchen.” She summarized, and Snow smiled happily.

“Potatoes?” Her mother questioned, obviously having peeled her fair share of them in her youth, and cupped her cheek a moment. Emma nodded, holding up her hands to show all the new shallow cuts she had managed to inflict upon herself. David chuckled while her mother took her hands and expected them to see if they really were all shallow, lingering on her healing burn.

“How is it that you can handle a sword as well as the best of the warriors in the land but you end up looking mauled by a Chimera whenever you enter a kitchen?” Snow questioned rhetorically. Her voice was amused, though, and Emma just shrugged again. 

“I’m special that way?” She tried and now both her parents laughed, drawing her in for another hug. 

“That you are...” Her father mused against the side of her head, and Emma held on to both of them a little tighter. She considered using the emotional moment to leverage her parents into coming clean about the meeting but she couldn’t make herself do it. Instead, the moment passed and her parents became the king and queen again right before her eyes while several servants walked in to change the war room into a dining one. 

“Come on,” David said jovially, wrapping an arm around Snow’s shoulders and the other around Emma’s. “Let’s get some fresh air before the banquet.”

The banquet turned out to be a rather fun affair. Emma was seated at the head of the horse-shoe arranged tables, with her mother on her right side and her father the next seat over. Around the bend in the tables, Baelfire had been seated, and although her mother had been pleased about that arrangement in the beginning, she was less amused as the evening went on and instead of young love, amusement flared. 

Before long, Emma and Baelfire—Bae—were howling with laughter, leaning conspiratorially close together as they discussed some of Emma’s more embarrassing stories and Baelfire’s worst camping tales. Emma almost fell off of her chair, howling with laughter, when he described lying down to sleep on an anthill and having to strip butt naked amongst his companions to get the ants off. Bae tried to act offended at her amusement, but she could tell he wasn’t offended at all. It was like being eight years old again and going with Baelfire wherever he went—like a shadow—because he was the most interesting thing that had ever happened in her life.

Every now and again, Snow had butted in, trying to steer the conversation away from adolescent jokes and guy talk, but Bae seemed in need of some lightness and Emma was happy with the turn of events. She was even happier when he agreed to a walk out in the gardens after dinner—something that served to please her parents as Baelfire offered her his arm and she accepted it without a second thought. She was having a good night and thoughts of a wedding were far off.

It was dark in the garden, but the moon was a little past half full and bright enough to light their way. Shivering in her thin dress, Emma pressed a little closer to Baelfire, who smiled at her.

“You grew up, princess.” Bae broke the silence. Emma shrugged, a hint of a smile on her features.

“It happens.” She deadpanned, and the older male laughed, shaking his head.

“You also got even more spunky than I remember you to be.” He added, and she smiled toothily at this. It was true, she guessed. Her eight year old self had needed to do a lot of growing up, and somewhere between sword training and embroidery, she had landed upon being a princess with a sword and really nice hair. There were worse things to be, Emma thought.

“Thanks, I guess?” She answered, not minding the warmth radiating off of her brown haired companion. Being cold reminded her of Regina, though, and for a moment, she wondered how she was doing, and if she was cold as well. Regina never seemed cold, where Emma was shivering like an idiot at the most minor of chills. Baelfire halted them and undid his cloak, wrapping it around her and pulling her a little closer in the process. His eyes sought hers a moment, and his smile was gentle when he answered her.

“You’re welcome, princess…” He said, and she swallowed when he leaned in slowly. It took her a moment to realize what was happening, and suddenly she realized that Bae'd had an entirely different agenda than her for taking her outside. Instantly, her mind flared into a panicked state she had to suppress because she couldn't deny the man who had her parents' approval. She watched him until his face started to morph because she was getting cross-eyed, then closed her eyes. Once she felt his lips on hers, she puckered them a little, unable to stop her mind from analyzing the situation. Here she was, cold and wrapped up in a cloak that smelled like Bae, being kissed by said male. He had obviously shaved before the banquet, but she could still feel some stubble here and there on his chin. He smelled like horses and expensive soap. His lips were soft, and he didn’t try to push his tongue into her mouth like she had read in a romance story once. Secretly, she was happy about that. She swallowed again and waited patiently for the kiss to end.

Once Baelfire pulled back, Emma smacked and licked her lips, looking up at the man who had given her her first kiss a little shyly. Baelfire smiled, and she returned the gesture without conscious thought; her mind was still trying to catch up with current affairs. 

“That was nice.” Bae said softly as he pushed a strand of hair out of her face, and Emma nodded, humming somewhat noncommittally. It _had_ been nice enough, but she hadn’t actually felt anything like what she was supposed to feel according to the stories; no stars, no thumping heart. It was a nice kiss… but that was about it. It did, however, confirm the intentions of her parents, because there was no way Baelfire would kiss her unless he had her parents’ approval. Well, there were worse men in the Kingdom, Emma thought to herself, and resolved herself to accept whatever her parents had decided for her. It wasn’t like she had a better option.

When Baelfire wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they started walking again, she allowed him even though it made her slightly uncomfortable. He made her feel small and a little fragile—and she wasn't either. Her mind was in turmoil again, and before long, she had to break the silence that was quickly becoming oppressive; if he was getting out of this walk what _he_ wanted, then _she_ was getting it as well.

“I hope the meeting this afternoon wasn’t too unpleasant…” She baited her companion, and he pulled her a little closer, sending an unpleasant shiver down her spine. She tried to create some space for herself as he answered her, but failed to create the level of distance she would have liked. She focused on his words, on the gravel under her feet, on the sweet scent of roses—anything to take her mind off of her physical discomfort.

“It was fine, really. A lot of people with too little information in a single room, trying to figure out what to do next.” He answered her, and she hummed. 

“It is a worrying situation,” She bluffed. “Thank you for all you are doing.”

“Your parents have done a lot for my family, and my father is always happy to assist. The Kingdom is his home as well, after all.” Baelfire answered her easily, and she wasn’t sure if he was calling her bluff or not; whatever it was, he wasn’t giving her much to work with… about current affairs anyway.

“Our families go back a long way, don’t they?” She asked, and Bae nodded.

“They do. It hasn’t always been positive, but the last twenty or so years, I think you could say we have been allies. If our families weren’t allies, we wouldn’t be here, now would we?” He answered, and Emma shivered. This whole romance thing was getting a little bit too real now her mind had caught up and Bae’s arm was still wrapped around her. This badly veiled talk of a marriage to entwine their families was a bit too much for a single evening. Emma had to change the subject, and fast.

“My parents helped you get back to the Kingdom, did they not?” Emma said, playing a card she knew she should not have. The question was: did Baelfire know she should be in the dark about the deal her parents had made with Rumplestiltskin?

“They did. They searched the land for magic powerful enough to open a portal and free me from the grasp of Peter Pan. My father did most of the actual combat against him, but it was actually your father who carried me home through the portal. I will always owe them for that, although it was not easy reconciling with the Dark One.” Bae answered her lightly, and the thundering in her chest settled: she was safe, for now—Bae had not called her on her bluff.

“You and your father weren’t close?” She asked, genuinely interested in the answer.

“We weren’t when I went through the portal. Neverland was hard enough for me to give him a second chance, though, and in the meantime he had found a woman who had changed him some; Belle was and is good for him, and she’s been able to bring us a lot closer than we were. Finding her alive and well in the Evil Queen’s castle made him rethink some of his priorities. I don’t like that he is the Dark One, but he’s trying to do some good now. That matters to me.” He added, and Emma was a little impressed with his honesty. It must not be easy to talk about something like this. This was twice now in a few days that people had confided in her about their lives, and both times, Emma was reminded of how lucky she was to have the parents she had.

“So now you travel the Kingdom and… represent him?” Emma asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand—namely whatever was going on in the Kingdom that had her parents so worried.

“Sometimes,” He agreed. He regarded her a moment, his expression becoming serious. “I’m my own man, though, Emma. Please don’t think of me only as my father’s son.”

“I won’t.” She reassured him, but secretly, she always sort of _had_ thought of him only as his father’s son—and someone who had brought her sweets and stories. “What do you do when you are not meeting people in your father’s name?” 

“Well, I try to do some good in the world. I trade in information wherever I can, and when the Kingdom is at risk, I try to help by sharing that information freely.” He answered, a smile coming to his features at memories that only he was aware of. Doing good sounded nice to Emma, who longed to travel the land on horseback and protect the people—like her parents had done.

“Like today?” She prodded, zeroing in on her goal. He nodded down at her, finally removing his arm from her shoulders and offering it to her to hold. She did, but a little reluctantly as they walked the gravel paths in the flower garden. 

“Exactly. I had heard the rumours, of course, but with the Ogre attack on the village… I think we all thought we would have more time.” Bae mused distantly, his eyes leaving her and drifting off as if his mind was miles away. Emma could feel her blood pump in her veins—the Ogre attack had been related to something bigger going on? There was something bigger going on? Something there were rumours about?

“Rumours?” She asked, trying to feign disinterest. Bae paused a moment, and Emma was sure he would not answer her, that he was under strict orders not to tell her anything concerning this big, mysterious, risk. Then, he looked down at her and sighed.

“The rumours that Cora is still alive… and that she’s coming for the throne.” He mused softly, and Emma tried to keep the mortification off of her face. All she could think was that she needed to get away, that she needed to talk to Regina. Her mother was still alive—and she was threatening the safety of the Kingdom. Cora—abusive, evil, Cora—was still alive, and somehow, she had control of the Ogres.


	11. Chapter 11

She couldn’t get away for another two hours when her parents finally let her go to bed. She didn’t go to bed, though. She sat at the window, staring out into the night with her heart in her throat while wishing the noises from outside her door to die down. She had kept the lights off, and the door to her rooms locked. She didn’t expect anyone to check in on her, but being discovered fully dressed would bring with it questions she did not want to answer.

Emma didn’t quite know how long it took for the halls to become empty enough to sneak out, but it was long enough for Emma’s frantic mind to spin completely out of control. Cora was alive. Cora was alive. Baelfire had kissed her—she was going to marry Baelfire. The Ogres were in league with Cora, and Cora wanted the throne. Why now, though? Why would she arrange this now and not eighteen years ago when she had learned of Regina’s ‘death’? Why not seize her opportunity during the Uprising? That war had been relatively short and low-scale, but it had been brutal enough to dent the overall moral of the Kingdom to such a degree Cora should have been able to make use of it. She hadn’t, so why now? Or had she perhaps been planning her revenge all these years and was only now putting her pieces on the board? That thought chilled Emma to the bone and she shivered emphatically.

She pushed the thoughts aside so she could make it through the hallways without being seen—something that almost failed as Sir Elyan suddenly emerged from his guest rooms. Emma had just enough time to dive into a niche and send a prayer to the Old Gods that he wouldn't notice her. Whether it had been divine intervention or sheer luck Emma would never know, but Elyan headed the other way down the hall and left her alone to mend her chest after her heart had exploded out of it in fear. After that, she took it even slower, and she was even more careful. The palace had become a lot more difficult to traverse with all these extra people in it who did not stick to patterns Emma was aware of.

Emma took extra precautions in the armoury as well: after dropping herself into the hole, she spent at least a quarter hour sliding the armour stand over her head, letting the board that usually covered the hatch drop into the hole. It would be hard to check if the coast was clear now, but at least there wouldn’t be an obvious hatch to spot by a wandering insomniac. Feeling a little safer, Emma secured her hood and steeled her resolve. She still had no idea how she was going to break this news to Regina, but for now, all she had to do was traverse a tunnel. Emma could traverse a tunnel, even if her mind was racing and her heart ached.

She didn’t expect the guard with the food to deliver it in the middle of the night, but she still listened carefully for any sound before pushing up the cover. The hallway was deserted, and she quickly hauled herself up. The light was on in the cell at the end of the row, and Emma was thankful for that. She needed Regina to be available, not asleep. She needed to spill everything inside her before it would consume her—because it would consume her if she had to hold it in another moment. Her nerves were shot, her heart hadn’t beaten right since Baelfire had dropped his bombshell, and the kiss played over and over in her mind. She didn’t want to marry him. She didn’t want to think about marrying him—all she wanted to be was a knight and save the Kingdom. 

“Regina?” She asked, and heard her voice quiver with emotion. The sound of iron on rock came as such a relief that her fragile hold on her emotions slipped. As she rushed forward and reached for long fingers that wrapped around the bars, she met eyes that searched her face at the odd behaviour Emma was displaying. 

“Was the date so bad, Miss Swan?” Regina sasses, trying to alleviate the mood, but Emma could not find it in her to return the banter. As tears rolled down her cheeks and her hand clamped over Regina’s, she stated the thing that mattered most.

“Cora is alive.” She whispered, and Regina froze. The hand under hers did not retract, and Emma took comfort in the cold skin—in the touch that instantly solidified the swirling mess inside her skull. The panic that came to Regina’s eyes, however, shattered Emma’s heart into a million pieces. If there had been any doubt left in Emma about the truth in the tale of Regina’s abuse at the hands of her mother, it would have been wiped away at the sheer terror displayed by the woman a breath away from her. There was also a touch of something else, though—hope, perhaps; the endless love of a child for their mother.

“How… how do you know?” Regina asked, and her voice was barely above a whisper. It was filled to the brim with emotion, and Emma’s stomach did a back flip when the hand not held by Emma wrapped over hers in turn. They were so close together now, and all Emma could look at were dark eyes and the small scar above Regina’s upper lip.

“Baelfire told me there are rumours, but it sounded pretty solid. Rumours that Cora is gathering—or putting into action—troops to overtake the throne.” Emma pressed hurriedly, watching realization flash across Regina’s face. Her mother was alive, and she was most certainly still evil. The dark sadness that touched Regina’s face at that had Emma grip her hand tighter. She looked so young, so crestfallen. Emma wasn’t surprised when Regina withdrew her hands and retreated into the cell, allowing Emma her first glance into the space that lay beyond.

It wasn’t like she had imagined it; instead of the bare hole she had seen in the other cell, this one was decorated. The cot had a mattress. There was a small table and a chair, and candles that lined the room. A plate of food was set aside. There was straw on the floor that looked fresh enough, and thankfully, it looked like Regina—who had sat down on the cot—had at least a few heavy blankets to keep her warm. What _really_ drew her attention, though, were the drawings that covered every inch of the wall that Emma could see. She was only privy to a small portion of the mural, but what she _could_ see was a forest, detailed in dark charcoal in such a way that it must have taken Regina _years_ to complete if the rest of the walls looked alike. The candlelight played over the scenes and added a vibrancy to the drawings that made them breathtakingly beautiful.

“I always thought she was dead.” Regina’s voice was void of emotions as she spoke up quietly, head down as she leaned back against the wall. Emma's eyes snapped to hers quickly and for the first time, Emma could see all of her, covered in faded green linen rags that covered her entire body save her hands, neck and head. She wore matching boots with thick soles that rested on the bunk below as Regina drew up her legs. She looked so young that this time, it was Emma gripping the bars, wishing she could breach them. She wanted to wrap her arms around the older woman and pull her close. Above all, Emma wanted to protect Regina from further heartache. She wanted to be a saviour— _her_ saviour—and Emma felt her head swim at the implications of that. Sighing, she forced her mind to focus.

What could Emma say to a woman in such obvious pain? Were there words that covered a situation as tragic as this: the mother Regina had presumed dead was still alive, but she was still the same person she had always been: abusive, vengeful—evil. Cora was alive, but Regina would still never have a mother. Thinking of her own mom, Emma had to fight not to spill the tears Regina was refusing to spill.

“Could she do it? Raise an army? Take the throne?” Emma asked eventually, brushing over the turmoil she could read on Regina’s face. If anyone knew Cora, it was Regina, and Emma needed information. She needed to know what was going on; Bae had refused to tell her more in the garden and after they had returned to the other guests and her parents, there had been no way to bring up the subject again—and it had been carefully avoided by everyone else. The brunette nodded without looking up at her. 

“Yes, she could. She would.” Regina answered, and the anger that suddenly laced the words sent chills down Emma’s spine. 

“Why?” She asked, giving voice to one of her major concerns. Now Regina did look at her and the fire that was in the dark orbs ignited something in Emma as well—a need to fight, a need to stop the oncoming storm… and an even stronger need to protect Regina, to stand by her side when the darkness came.

“Because all my mother has ever wanted, is power. She thinks I’m dead—and even if she thought I were still alive, I never lived up to her expectations—she must have decided to take the power she thought she would have through me for herself.” Regina answered darkly. 

“Okay, yeah, that sounds logical—messed up but logical—but why _now_?” Emma pressed. Regina shrugged. “I mean, she’s had eighteen years to take power.”

“Revenge—proper revenge—takes time. If the hate runs as deep as it does with my mother, eighteen years is nothing. She has magic on her side; if I were her—which I am not, but I can put myself in her shoes—I would have spent most of the previous years finding a way to stop aging and building an army. It would take much longer than ‘normal’ because everything would have to be arranged in secret. My mother has the ability to take the physical appearance of anyone she wants; she would be able to manipulate people in high places, as well as anyone who hates the throne—creature or man—into doing her will.” Regina reasoned, the defeat evident in her voice.

“The Ogres are on her side.” Emma said softly. Regina nodded.

“They are powerful and dumb. They make good labourers and impressive foes. I would have rallied them, too.” She answered, and Emma could see Regina’s mind race along its current trajectory towards Cora’s battle plans.

“Then what? Who else?” Emma asked, caught up in the adrenaline of battle planning, of gathering intelligence that would perhaps help her parents along the way—that would help the Kingdom.

“Anyone else, really. The outlaws, the villains—personally, I would set my sights on the dragons. Eighteen years ago, there weren’t many of them left, but the ones that survived were old and powerful. For the right price, they would join the battle after the cannon fodder has been cleared away. Oh—and the Shifters and Lycanthropes, of course. The Rakshasa would be hard to convince, but their spell casters are powerful enough to risk a visit to their Royal Courts, and creatures like the Naga would strengthen any army. The were-creatures would be ineffective most of the time, but the wolves especially are absolutely lethal under the light of the—Emma, what is it? You went pale as a sheet.”

“You wouldn’t know…” Emma babbled, indeed feeling the blood drain from her face. 

“Wouldn’t know what, Miss Swan?” Regina questioned, her voice betraying the tension inside of her. She fell back on her earlier pet name for the incognito princess easily—thoughtlessly—but Emma noticed, and would have smiled if the circumstances weren’t so dire. 

“Ten years ago, the werewolves rallied.” Emma started. “They _organized_ somehow. Packs of wolves, led by one or two Were’s attacked villages, killing as many as they could, and torching houses. Not all the packs joined in, and some joined our side, but the amount of packs that turned against us unprovoked was… staggering—we thought they had been all but extinct. They were impossible to find once they fled, and they struck without warning. A lot of good men and women were murdered and it took months for order to be restored. I was eight so I don’t remember much, but it was a bad time. We call it the Uprising of the Wolves. Do you think… could it be…?”

“Cora?” Regina filled in the blank. “It wouldn’t surprise me. A test case, perhaps? Or a badly executed plan—although the latter sounds unlikely to me. With the limited knowledge I have, I would wager that _if_ Cora had a hand in the Uprising of the Wolves, she did it to gauge the responses the Kingdom could muster. It would be the perfect way to test the strength of the armies, to discover response times, to locate supply routes and valuable targets… If she _were_ preparing for all-out war, this would be information that was worth alienating the Lycanthropes over, and the ruthlessness displayed might even get her points with creatures like the Rakshasa.”

“What are they?” Emma asked, unable to cope with this revelation for now. Regina looked up at her in mild confusion, obviously having been dragged out of her train of thought.

“Hm? Oh, the Rakshasa? They are a very powerful race of shape shifters, although their natural shape is not that of a human. They can shape _into_ a human form at will, but normally, they are much taller and heavier. They appear beast-like, like a blend between human and tiger, and they have a very strict caste system in place. Those of the higher castes are powerful spell casters, those from the lower castes powerful fighters—but they all have magic. They are not native to these lands, but they have been here for centuries, keeping themselves away from human civilization—since they are solitary creatures, they often manage to stay undetected for decades. If you can unite them, they are a force to be reckoned with, so if I were my mother, I would pay nearly any price they would ask of me if it got me their support in a war." Regina explained, and Emma wondered how the brunette knew of the Rakshasa; Emma had never even heard of these creatures. Had Cora told her?

“And the Naga?” Emma asked, leaning her head against the bars of the cell.

“Snake creatures—part snake, part human. Some of the older ones can shift into a fully human form. They are magic users as well, but their poison is their true weapon; they can spit it across great distances, and it will melt away armour, skin, and bone. The Elders are said to be able to read the minds of those who meet their eye, but I don’t know how true that is.” Regina answered her question easily, as if she had just studied these creatures—and Emma was quite sure that that wasn’t the case.

“How do you know all of this…?” She asked incredulously, not too proud to admit that she was duly impressed. Regina smiled at that and met her eyes with a bit of pride. If Emma hadn’t known better, though, she would have thought Regina was blushing a little. Somehow, the thought of that caused a flutter in her gut and she smiled back easily. Regina took a moment before she answered, and a note of insecurity flashed over her features, obvious enough to pique Emma’s interest.

“That is quite a long story, Princess…” Regina started, and Emma cocked an eyebrow at the mischievous glint that came to Regina’s features. “Perhaps you would like to come in and have a seat for it?”


	12. Chapter 12

“What?” Emma questioned dumbly, unable to get her mind to cooperate enough to interpret the former Queen’s words. Her heartbeat was thundering in her ears, drowning out her thoughts. Was this a trick? Was Regina trying to get her to open the door so she could escape? Had this always been the point of their interactions? Regina caught the panic that overtook Emma’s features and leaned forward a little showing her the palms of her hands in a gesture that was obviously meant to calm her.

“I invited you inside my cell. You can leave the door open if you want? And if you are worried I will hurt you… well, I will not. I can promise you that.” Regina clarified softly—slowly. She obviously understood Emma’s worries, and Emma felt herself respond to Regina’s reassurances without her own permission. Her heart slowed enough to get some of her thoughts under control. 

“I don’t have the key.” Emma said hesitantly, looking around to check if it was hanging off of a hook somewhere. Even with the key, she wasn’t sure if she would open the cell and actually step inside. Regina was still a murderer and the former Evil Queen… but she didn’t detect a lie in Regina’s words. For now, the thought was blessedly theoretical anyway.

“Try the handle.” Regina answered her, and it was obvious Regina was hiding her glee behind her calm demeanour now. Emma, intrigued, lifted the simple handle of the door, and it swung open effortlessly, despite the impressive lock that had been installed on it.

“How…?” She questioned, picking her jaw off of the floor as she stood in the door opening, eyes firmly on Regina who wasn’t hiding anything now. She was beaming with barely contained amused smugness, and Emma felt like an idiot.

“I’ve had years in this cell, Emma. I figured out how to pick the lock very early on. I used to keep it locked all the time, now I leave it unlocked except for rare occasions. When the guard brings in fresh straw once a week, I make sure it’s locked again, but they use the food hatch for everything else. It has become my little act of rebellion to pass the time.” Regina confessed, and Emma found herself laughing without even thinking about it; Regina’s face was that of a naughty child, and it was hilarious. Her laughter died suddenly when Emma realized that the door had most likely been unlocked for every single one of their meetings. Regina could have just… thrown open the door once she had found out about Emma’s identity and—

“Why did you never…?” Emma asked hesitantly, gesturing between her and the door. Regina lifted her left arm, showing the chain that ran down from the cuff.

“I’m still chained up; I can’t leave here. The lock is enhanced with magic; it needs a key. As for why I never attacked _you_ … I never wished you harm. Not really.” Regina admitted, eyes falling away to her hands, which had been brought together in her lap. “It was too huge of a relief to have a visitor at all… to talk to someone other than myself.”

Regina’s voice was fragile enough to tug on Emma’s heartstrings. With a sigh, she silenced the worried voice of her mother inside her skull and stepped into the small space. Regina’s eyes observed her curiously—hesitantly. She had gone rigid, trying not to spook Emma who was pretending to be braver than she felt. She took two steps deeper into the space and reached for the desk chair. Biting her lip and keeping her eyes on Regina, she pulled it out, turned it, and sat down. Their eyes never left each other as Emma got comfortable on the hardwood chair and exhaled, trying to steady her nerves. Seconds stretched out uncomfortably slowly as the two women read each other’s eyes, then Regina smiled softly—gratefully—and Emma smiled in return, breaking the tension.

“So, how do you know so much about magical creatures?” Emma asked again, leaning forward a little as curiosity won out over the shiver of fear that traversed her spine. She wasn’t comfortable at all, but Regina was still sitting on the cot with her legs drawn up, and for the first time, Emma could take in the whole of her in detail, not just through bars. Even with her tattered and over-sized clothing, her tangled hair and her pale skin, Regina was beautiful… intense… and Emma felt drawn to close the small space between them, to warm the hands she knew were cold. Her heart sped up at the thought. Something had changed between them now the door had literally been opened, and Emma became so caught up in her own thoughts, he almost missed Regina’s words when she started speaking again.

“Books, mostly.” Regina said softly, shaking Emma out of her reverie. “I had years to myself to read when I was a prisoner in King Leopold’s palace. He was away much of the time, and I never was very fond of the time I spent with Snow White. I tended to lock myself away in my rooms with any book I could find in the library, and once I started using magic, my focus came to lie on that. Mythical creatures, books about healing, about curses, about transmutation and energy manipulation… there weren’t many of the latter categories, but Leopold had an impressive collection of books about mythical creatures. I spent many a night validating my newly gleaned knowledge with Rumplestiltskin when he chose to humour me in my hobby. Thinking back, I think he found it amusing that I spent so much time reading up on creatures I would never see for myself. For me, it was a way to get away.”

“And you still remember all you read?” Emma asked, wishing she had a memory like Regina’s. She would do much better in her lessons then.

“I still remember everything I remembered when your parents put me in this cell.” The venom in the words was light this time, and Emma let the opportunity for an argument go in favour of the rest of the story. “Once I realized I would be left here to rot, I began finding ways to get through the days. I picked the lock, started my view—as I call it—and recited again and again everything I found in my head. I had to do it out loud first, just to keep my sanity, but I have grown accustomed to the silence. I recite solely in my head now.”

“That’s actually really beautiful…” Emma answered, and Regina smiled, that faint blush returning to her features. Emma couldn’t help but marvel at how relaxed Regina looked, how at ease she was with having someone in her personal space—the space she’d had to herself for years now. Despite the turmoil of today’s revelations, she was talking quietly with the daughter of her enemy, and Emma’s stomach fluttered a little, a soft smile coming to her features. Regina returned it, and again, Emma was struck by the youth she exuded—the beauty. It were thoughts Emma stubbornly refused to analyse.

“Thank you. For saying that and for… coming back.” Regina said softly, and Emma’s smile widened. 

“I told you I would.” She answered and Regina nodded, her smile turning into a soft smirk as she spoke. 

“You did, but I didn’t believe you.” Regina answered her truthfully, and Emma had to contain a sigh. How many promises had been broken towards Regina in her life? How many times had people gotten her hopes up only to dash them with inattentiveness or cruelty? She remembered Regina telling her that she had been positive and happy as a girl, and Emma could see more and more of that young woman in the prisoner. She never saw the Evil Queen, and doubted she ever had.

“Well, I meant it…” Emma said cockily, and grinned. Regina matched her expression. They stared at each other for long moments before Emma’s eyes smoothly slid away from the woman on the cot to the wall behind her, and Emma realized that every inch of every wall was covered in the fine charcoal drawings. It seemed to be one large scene, Regina’s ‘view’, made up of forest and a lake or sea against a backdrop of impressive mountains. It was oddly familiar to Emma, but she couldn’t place it.

“I like your mural.” She filled the silence, and Regina’s eyes were drawn to the walls as well. She hummed softly in acknowledgment. “I feel like I should know it.” 

“You should, princess, although it might have changed some from the time I last saw it. It’s the view outside your windows; the view I had while I was locked away in your grandfather’s palace.” Regina told her, and Emma stood, realization dawning on her. It was, she realized, the view she had grown up with; the lake in which she had learned to swim, the woods where Aunt Red lived. The houses surrounding the castle were left off—or perhaps they hadn’t been there yet—but it was definitely the same view. How had she missed that? 

“I recognize it now. It’s beautiful!” She stepped closer to the wall, reaching out to touch the scorched tree that still stood in a clearing not far from the road—a road also drawn with painstaking accuracy. Emma looked up as she heard the rattling of chains as Regina stood, but she wasn’t feeling threatened now; being in Regina's world was like being in her head and although there was darkness there, there was no threat. Instead, she let Regina get closer without turning around, her throat going dry although she wasn’t sure why. She was simply _very_ aware of the other woman. Emma realized she had to change the subject—fast.

“Why would you draw the view outside of the palace? You could have drawn anything?” She asked, tracing the wall just next to the lines so as not to damage the drawing itself. She could feel Regina step closer and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up at the nearness. Emma could feel the tension between them now even when they weren't touching and her heart did that weird leapy thing again. When Regina answered her, it was almost against the shell of her ear.

“I drew it because, once I was locked in here, I became aware of the amount of freedom I had enjoyed while I thought I had been locked up. It’s a reminder to appreciate the moment, no matter how dire it seems.” Regina said, and her voice made Emma shiver all the way down to her toes.

“Appreciate the moment, huh…?” Emma asked as her head swam, turning around now to carry the conversation more easily. As she did, though, she suddenly found herself confronted with the woman mere inches from her; they were so close they were almost touching. She could feel Regina’s breath on her, and felt her stomach clench when she realized the brunette’s breathing had picked up speed. Regina was a little shorter than her, and she looked frail in the clothes that might have fitted her in the past but which were a few sizes too large now. Regina’s eyes screamed a mixture of panic and curiosity as they darted over Emma’s features. She was obviously just as caught up in the moment as Emma was. What was happening? Why did this feel so inevitable to her?

Emma’s words died on her lips and she swallowed heavily as dark eyes met hers. Her heart was pounding in her chest now, and she shivered, taking in all of the woman before her. Why was she feeling so light-headed? Why did _this_ , being this close, affect her so? Her eyes dipped to soft lips that parted as if Regina was going to speak, but she didn’t. Instead, Regina stepped away, trying to turn around, to get away, but Emma’s hand flew up to stop her before she even had a chance to fully turn her head. Dark eyes snapped to the hand on her wrist and then back to Emma’s eyes. There was fear in them now, and Regina’s arm was shaking gently under her—vibrating almost. It was as if a current ran between them and Emma was caught in it. 

Without thinking, without doing anything but going with her gut—with the feelings she had been harbouring but had never linked to anything but empathy, compassion… adventure—she released Regina’s arm but stepped more firmly into her personal space. Regina was looking at her with confusion now, with fear, but beyond that… beyond that was something deeper. Emma recognized it now—not just human connection, but a connection with _her_. This is what had been in the romance novels Emma had read, these were the feelings that the author had tried to describe but had failed to convey. 

“Emma…” The word fell off of trembling lips, and Emma felt it course through her system like wildfire. It was a plea, a wish for Emma to not hurt her, but also for her not to stop. Once more, Emma’s eyes fell on lips, and Regina subconsciously licked them, spurring Emma on to greater urgency. She wasn’t feeling young now; she felt ageless, mature, strong and in control… and Regina surrendered to her. 

With a sharp intake of breath, she leaned forward, closing the distance between them. Regina whimpered when their lips connected and with this kiss, Emma _did_ feel something; her heart skipped a beat before sprinting to a gallop, her breath was stolen by the softness she found, and her mind shut down entirely as she drowned in the soft press. Regina smelled like straw and dirt, but beyond all of that, she smelled like cinnamon and quiet evenings in front of the fireplace, like a warm summer’s day and a wild ride over the meadow. Her hand came up to cup Regina’s cheek without having to think about it, and Regina’s hands fisted her shirt, drawing her a little closer as they moved gently against each other.

It was perfect. It was everything it was supposed to be… and suddenly, Emma realized she was kissing someone—kissing a woman—kissing the Evil Queen; her mother's ex-stepmother. Panic overtook her mind and her eyes flew open as her heart sank, heat flushing her system as adrenaline pumped through her veins. Oh Gods, what had she done? She pulled back hurriedly, trying to get a grip on her breathing, on her emotions, and watched Regina’s face go from blissful to confused, and then on to angry with only a minute flash of pain in between. Regina stepped back, stepped away, and turned her back, shoulders slumping. Emma wanted to say something, wanted to make all of this better—undo it—but she couldn’t. It had happened, and it had been _wrong_ … and they both knew what that meant for these visits. Emma had destroyed this—them. Tears sprang up in her eyes and suddenly the paralysis that had overtaken her left her.

She rushed out without another word, her heart breaking. She didn’t close the door behind her, just rounded it and sped to her secret entrance, slipping into the hole and securing the hatch. She escaped… again. Where she had once thought she had imagined a sigh, she now knew beyond a doubt that the sob she heard from within the cell was real, and she felt like the worst human being in the world for causing it. Guilt crushed down on her so desperately heavily that she could no longer contain her own tears. She was choking on them as she headed through the passageway, towards the life she was supposed to live and away from the place where her heart lay. Her parents might have falling in love on a Troll bridge, but Emma had fallen in love in a jail cell. She hadn't realized it was happening—hadn't known she could fall for a woman—but she had; not that she would ever admit that to herself again, however, once she left this tunnel. She could never go back. She was going to marry Baelfire and have babies. She was going to be the queen. That was her life. This thing—whatever it was—between her and Regina needed to stop. Her parents had done the right thing in forgetting about Regina; she was going to have to do the same.

It was painful to wait and check if the coast was clear, frustrating to inch away the armour stand, and almost impossible to traverse the palace’s hallways with a clear enough head on her shoulders not to be spotted. She managed—somehow—and finally found herself in her rooms, shaking like a leaf. Emma quickly locked the door and stripped naked before washing her hands and stained face, and slipping on her nightshirt. On auto-pilot, she tucked the clothes away and slid into bed. It was only then that the true magnitude of the night’s events came crashing down on her. She had kissed Regina and had left her in her jail cell to deal with the emotional fall-out. She had kissed a woman—she had kissed a woman and it had felt like it should have felt kissing Bae. Yet, kissing Bae had not made her feel anything like that. He hadn’t made her heart race, and her mind go quit. He hadn’t made her think of summer days and warm fires. All he had made her think was that she was glad he hadn’t used his tongue while the thought of using tongue with Regina would haunt her forever. 

With her mind overflowing from everything that had happened not only today but in the last few weeks, Emma lay awake for hours—despite her exhaustion. She fell asleep at the crack of dawn, having spent every tear she had in her to cry at the unfairness of her life and the treachery of her heart. All she had wanted to do since she was a little girl was slay dragons; she had never realized she had wanted to do that because she had wanted to rescue the princess—well, the queen. Now she knew, though, she also knew she was trapped; she would always be trapped, because this was something that could never happen. Regina and her could never happen, and now Emma knew what she was going to be missing, she knew she would be just as much a prisoner as Regina had been—and still was—once she married Baelfire. She would never be free, and never again would she be as innocent as she had been just a few short hours ago. Everything was now destroyed, and it was her own fault.


	13. Chapter 13

Emma didn’t know how she was going to face Baelfire the following morning. What was she going to say? _Good morning, Bea, I enjoyed our kiss last night but then I kissed the Evil Queen and I realized that I can't marry you because I'm in love with her_? Was she going to let him kiss her again? Because she _was_ getting married to him. There was no other way; princesses did not marry Evil Queens—Emma hadn't even realized they could be _attracted_ to Evil Queens! She was supposed to fall for a man; it was in all the stories, she saw it in everyone around her. No one could ever find out that she was a deviant. Also, what was she going to say to her parents? _Mom, dad, do you remember the woman you've kept locked up for the last eighteen years? The one who is like... three times my age—although she looks younger than you two—and tried to kill you guys a bunch of times? Yeah... I may be sort of thinking about breaking her out and running away with her to give her the happy ending I think she deserves_. It would be the truth, but obviously, she would never be able to say that to her parents. Ever.

Thankfully, it seemed the Gods were willing to throw her a bone after messing with her life so cruelly last night. After waking up from a rough knock on the door and a sing-song wish for a good morning by Johanna, she dragged herself out of bed—nauseous and light-headed—and located a letter on the floor, having been scooted through the crack under the door. It was from Baelfire, who expressed his regret at having to miss breakfast in favour of responding to an urgent message from his father. It seemed he had left a little after Emma had fallen asleep. In the letter, he expressed his joy at last night’s events as well as his hope of seeing her again soon. 

Emma’s stomach finally gave up the fight, and she had to rush to find a flower vase to lose the contents of her stomach in. Heaving on the edge of the bed, vase between her legs, head down, letter next to her, Emma realized she couldn’t stay here. She had to get away. She couldn’t pretend to be alright under her parent’s watchful eye, couldn’t pretend to be a good princess and remember her etiquette lessons. She had to leave, even if it was only for a night. The walls were crushing down on her here.

She dressed shakily, in a dress her mother would approve off, and fixed her appearance in the mirror as best she could. She looked miserable. She couldn’t look miserable; not for breakfast with guests. Splashing water on her face, Emma stared at herself in the mirror for long moments and squared her shoulders, trying to plaster a smile onto her face that looked convincing enough. She fixed her hair, jumped up and down a few times to get some colour back on her cheeks, and decided it would have to do. She tucked Bae’s note into her desk drawer and left for breakfast, hoping to all Gods she wasn’t going to let anything slip or make a fool of herself.

The breakfast room was already packed when she arrived, and the mass of people and sounds made Emma feel uneasy. She felt exposed, like she could be found out any moment. Like everyone could somehow _see_ what she had done last night—see what was in her head. She thought she _had_ been found out for a moment, when her mother rushed up to her but the smile on her face was far too bright for her to know the truth—that her daughter had betrayed her; that she was a freak.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Her mother gushed and hugged her a moment. Emma stiffly allowed it, focusing on not crying, not showing anything. “I heard you had a good walk with Baelfire last night?”

“With Baelfire…?” Emma questioned, unable to recall what her mother was on about a moment before her memories kicked in. “Yes, yes! We had a very nice walk. It was… pleasant.” 

Snow White beamed brighter and hugged her tightly another moment. Once she pulled back, Emma could see genuine happiness in her eyes, and she felt even more miserable. Her mother thought Emma was happy, that she would get settled with a man she would grow to love, but in truth, Emma felt more miserable about her future marriage than the upcoming war—and that was with words like ‘Dragons’ and ‘Rakshasa’ playing through her mind. Taking a steadying breath, Emma blurted out her request, knowing she would lose her nerve—or mind—if she waited any longer.

"Mom? Is it okay if I go see Aunt Red today? I haven't seen her in a long time and I would really like to. You have another meeting planned, right? And I got pretty bored yesterday… I could send a messenger and ask if it would be okay? I would come back tomorrow? We wouldn't have to cancel any lessons, I'll make sure of that." She questioned as innocently as she could, making up half truths as she went. Snow regarded her curiously a moment as Emma held her breath. She had so much to think about and work through, and she couldn’t do it here in the palace where the wall were coming in on her and she could feel her parents’ eyes on her every minute. She couldn’t do it here where every step on the tiles reminded her of what lay below—reminded her of _the kiss_ that was already on loop in her mind. In short, a reprieve from her parents sounded very good right now, and spending time with Red always made her feel better; Aunt Red had this way about her that made people feel at ease, even if they were talking to a werewolf. 

“That’s a little short-notice, isn’t it?” Snow said softly, examining her while Emma tried to keep her face natural and smooth. She was sure her mom was aware something was going on with her daughter, but Emma knew Snow’s answer hinged on her willingness to force her into spilling what it was. 

“Well, she can say no… I’ll just write her a message asking—very nicely—if I can sleep over. Come on, mom… Aunty Red always likes it when I come to visit.” Emma pleaded, projecting nothing but innocence and youthful exuberance at the idea of spending time with the woman who—indeed—did always enjoy their visits together. Snow sighed.

“Alright, send your messenger. We’ll let Red decide.” She answered with an indulgent smile, and Emma jumped up excitedly, feeling a weight lifting off of her already. Seeing as it wasn’t wolf’s time, Emma did not doubt her aunt would allow her over, which meant Emma was getting away. 

“Yes! Thank you! I’ll be right back for breakfast, I promise.” She gushed, rushing to find pen, paper, and a messenger. When she returned triumphantly, the sound of horse hooves echoed up from the courtyard, and she subjected to her breakfast, always on her best behaviour even though it was tiring. Talking to people, however, was also normalizing. By the time Emma had finished her breakfast, she felt more uplifted and care free than she had since she had first found the dungeons. It seemed to please her parents, and when she couldn’t sit still anymore, her mother excused her without a reprimand, allowing Emma to pack an overnight bag—no dresses—while they waited for Red’s return message. 

Emma was so convinced she’d be riding out soon that she saddled Palermo, her perfectly white full blood Camarillo in advance, completely ignoring her mother’s wishes for her to ride side-saddle. In fact, she had recalcitrantly changed out of the sky blue dress she had fished out of her wardrobe this morning and into her favourite pair of riding pants, topped with a white linen shirt and her leather cuirass. She wasn’t supposed to wear it outside of lessons, but she needed to feel powerful today; she needed the protection it offered because her head felt like a fishbowl, transparent and showing anyone looking exactly what Emma had done.

Of course, the messenger returned swiftly with a hastily scribbled note from Red Riding Hood, saying she would love to entertain the princess for the remainder of the day as well as the night. Emma rushed the note off to her parents, and hugged them goodbye while ignoring Snow White’s unhappy glance at her outfit. 

“Okay, I’ll be back tomorrow. Combat training with you and the guards, right dad?” Emma confirmed, bouncing a little in the throne room they had moved into as her parents leaned back in their respective thrones with an indulgent—abide somewhat worried—look. She lifted her bag more firmly onto her shoulder. Her sword was strapped securely to her hip already, and she was almost vibrating in her riding boots, wishing to leave this damn palace behind.

“Yes, Emma. We will send a guard to collect you an hour to noon tomorrow. Take one of the men with you as you ride?” David answered her, and Emma rolled her eyes.

“I can take care of myself, dad!” She huffed, but she could already tell she was going to be taking an escort. Neither of her parents looked in the mood to discuss the terms of her visit to Red. While David opened his mouth to comment, she already threw up her hands. “Never mind, never mind. I’ll take a guard. Thank you. See you tomorrow. Bye!” 

She caught one last pained-yet-amused look between her parents before she backed out through the double doors into the hall, bowing exaggeratedly deep as she left her parents to deal with the guests who watched her go with a bemused expression—all but Archimedes, who was scowling. Hurrying through the hallways, she headed out into the courtyard, commandeering the first male with a sword atop a horse that she spotted. 

“Terrance—it’s Terrance, right? Good—you’re escorting me to Aun—Red Riding Hood’s cabin. Now.” She called out, and he nodded, calling over another guard to arrange the situation while she undid the knot to Palermo’s reigns and effortlessly lifted herself onto his back. She didn’t check if Terrance followed her out of the gate as she quickly urged her horse into a gallop, savouring the freedom in leaving the palace behind—in running away from her problems. 

The young guard with the friendly smile and dark brown hair caught up to her when she levelled Palermo’s speed off into a trot once she cleared the few houses, stores, and inns that had been erected around the palace, and she smiled at him as he tapped his helmet with his gloved hand. When she increased her speed, he matched her, and before long, they were laughing as they rushed over the meadow and through the woods, only marginally slowing once they reached the tree line. It was fantastic; leaving behind all her worries and all her responsibilities in the dust kicked up by her horse, Emma felt free and undisturbed for the first time in months—ever since her parents had first brought up their worries about her love life. 

The ride to Aunt Red’s cottage was over far too fast for her liking. As she slowed Palermo down to a slow trot and steered him onto the open dirt courtyard in front of Aunt Red’s small but cosy cottage—scaring the chickens which had been roaming peacefully prior—Terrance sharply halted his chestnut steed and turned, waiting for the door of the cottage to open. Once it did, he bowed briefly from the back of his horse, met Emma’s eyes one more time in silent recognition of having had a good time, and then spurred his horse on, letting Emma slide off of her horse and rush into her adopted aunt’s open arms without a witness.

“Emma! It’s so good to see you, how are you?” Red gushed as Emma burrowed into her, savouring the scent of pine and hay that was so familiar, relishing in the underlying notes of Red’s more animal-like nature: Red, somehow, always smelled a little like wet dog. Emma had mentioned that once as a kid and had laughed for hours about Red’s offended face. Extracting herself slowly, she kept her hands on narrow hips that she still could not believe had the capability of becoming those of a fearsome creature. Yet, when she looked into Red’s dark eyes she could believe it. There was always a hint to her dual nature there that could not be denied.

“Better now.” Emma said honestly. Lying to her parents was one thing, but Red always inspired the truth from her. Maybe it had to do with the brutal honesty with which her aunt carried the burdens of her alternate form; she never let her long dark hair cover the badly healed claw marks that ran from her cheek to her neck, nor did she cover the marks left by a bear trap on her right arm. She knew that Red’s body carried more scars under the simple dark red dress she had worn today—puncture wounds from arrows shot at her in rage, fear, or carelessness, claw marks from the battles with other wolves and werewolves during the Uprising ten years ago—but she never hid them purposefully. Red carried them proudly; ‘as a wolf should’, or so she would always say.

“Good. Why don’t you take care of Palermo and join me for tea in the back yard? I baked cookies just this morning—it’s as if I knew you would come by.” Red answered her, compassion in the dark orbs that studied her but never to the point where Emma felt uncomfortable. Emma nodded and after planting a kiss on Emma’s cheek and giving her another happy hug, Red released her, pressed a carrot into her hand for Palermo, and heading inside. Emma led her horse to the small corral near the house, past the badly overgrown flower and herb gardens that surrounded the cottage on the edge of another meadow. She fished a brush from Palermo’s saddle bag and undid the saddle straps, sliding the saddle off of Palermo’s sweaty back and placed it on the fence she had tied the horse to for the moment. She grinned when he nudged her for the carrot she had stuffed into her pocket and she pushed his head away with a laugh before brushing him dry after his excited sprint. 

She was happy she had come; Red’s idyllic cottage, located half in the tree line and half on the meadow always set her mind at ease. It was an escape from her duties, an escape from the palace, and that alone relaxed her to such a degree that her shoulders sagged blissfully. The wild ride had settled her heart and had cleared her mind from most of the pressure she felt every minute she spent within the palace walls where everyone watched her and demanded things of her. Here, she could wear pants and get dirty, here she could laugh as loud as she wanted to and chew with her mouth open. Here, she was free to do whatever she wanted; Aunt Red just loved having her over and never demanded of her to be anything other than herself. Emma figured it had to do with her own need to be herself, and she was very grateful for it. Perhaps Red would understand—if Emma had the courage to tell her.

It took her ten minutes at best to fully take care of Palermo and in that time, Red’s gray mare had emerged from beyond the slope of the meadow to investigate the visitors. The horse—which Red had humoristically called ‘Moonshine’—was as unruly as her owner, and Emma had a soft spot for the compact animal. Palermo liked her too, and as soon as Emma slid the headgear from his head and gave both half of the carrot, the two sprinted off into the field beyond, both bucking and kicking wildly to show their excitement over being reunited. Emma watched them for a few moments before washing Palermo's headgear and heading to her aunt. Walking past the house and into the back garden shaded by trees, Emma found Red already waiting for her, having moved two chairs and a small table into the sun. A large mug filled with hot water and verbena leaves sat at her place at the table, and Red was cradling hers. A large plate of cookies awaited her and Emma felt her stomach rumble.

As she washed her hands in a bucket of water set out on the edge of the well, she observed the woman who had leaned back and had shut her eyes to enjoy every bit of sunlight that fell on her. She was getting older, Emma noticed. Like with her parents, crow’s feet had taken up on Red’s marred but still beautiful features. Her skin had become looser around her jaw over the years, but there was a vibrancy in her aunt that Emma couldn’t imagine waning. Emma still had a few memories of Granny Lucas, who had not survived the Uprising of the Wolves and she wondered if Red would look like that in forty years. She could not imagine it. Still, losing her grandmother had left deep scars on Red—scars that went far deeper than the ugly claw mark that she carried outwardly and which she had gotten in the fight to protect her grandmother when the wolves had descended upon her. 

Shaking the bad memories and her hands at the same time, Emma put the thoughts out of her mind and moved over to her aunt. After undoing her sword belt, she sat down heavily in the chair pulled out for her. She set the sword against the side of the house and reached for her tea, sniffing the rich aroma of it. With her other hand, she reached for a cookie and smiled happily once she took a bite: ginger. Emma loved ginger spice cookies. Moaning around a mouth full, Red’s lips curved up into a smile—the one corner more easily than the other. Quiet seconds passed in which Red let Emma acclimate to her surroundings, then she gently tilted her head and opened her eyes so she could observe her godchild. 

“So… would you like to tell me to what I owe this impromptu visit…?” She prodded gently and Emma sighed, buying time by taking a bite out of a second cookie. She glanced at Red, who smiled lightly—encouragingly. Staring back down into her mug, Emma took a deep breath. 

“Aunt Red… may I tell you a story?” She eventually asked, and Red hummed encouragingly.


	14. Chapter 14

Emma wasn’t a storyteller, not like Regina, who never stumbled and actually made sense when she spoke. Emma could read out declarations and carry authority in her voice—she had been taught well—but formulating a story out of the jumbled mess that were her thoughts seemed impossible. Yet there was no pressure; the sun was warm, the tea comforting and Aunt Red was perhaps the most understanding person Emma had ever met. She had all the time in the world; here, no one would interrupt or bother. Besides, she wouldn't have to share her _whole_ story.

“You can’t tell my parents, not any of it. Promise?” Emma started, and Red regarded her for a long moment. She set her mug down with a sigh and leaned forward to place a lanky hand on Emma’s arm. 

“You know I can’t make that promise, cub.” Red answered, soothing the sting of her words with the use of Emma’s pet name. Emma sighed, knowing Red was right. These were her best friends they were talking about; Snow White and Prince Charming, the people Red loved more than anything in the world—along with Emma, of course.

“It was worth a try.” She said with a lopsided grin that Red answered.

“What I _can_ promise you is that I will keep your confidence as long as I can. If you’re not in danger, I see no reason to tell your parents… but I guess it all depends on what you are going to tell me, now won’t it?” Red promised, and Emma bit her lip.

“Yeah… well… I may or may not have gotten myself in a little bit of danger…?” She muttered, and now she truly had her aunt’s attention. She could see the worry in the dark eyes, and smiled to lighten the mood. “Just a little. Not much. Mostly I’m just conflicted and confused… and a little angry… and did I mention conflicted?”

“Why don’t you just tell me what is going on, Em?” Red tried, and Emma nodded, taking a sip of her cooling tea as she settled her thoughts.

“I’ve met someone… no, not like that… well… I-I… a woman.” Emma started, and realized that was not how she should have started. All of this would be so much easier to explain if she just hadn’t kissed Regina! Red’s face was unreadable, and Emma had to force herself to go on, focusing on one issue at a time. “Let’s call her… Jean for the moment. She told me a story about my parents. Well, about her, but also about my parents… and it’s not the story my parents always told me. The problem is… I believe her, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Which story?” Red questioned, a note of reservation and worry in her voice while she picked up her mug again and blew onto the water.

“The story… of the Evil Queen and the curse.” Emma said, meeting Red’s eyes with reservation, and Red exhaled audibly, breaking eye contact. 

“What did this ‘Jean’ tell you about the curse?” Her aunt questioned, and Emma bit her lip.

“That my parents made a deal with the Dark One… that, in exchange for putting the Evil Queen under a sleeping curse, they promised to help bring back his son from another world. That they made the Dark One trick the Evil Queen… and that she is not dead at all but… locked up in the palace dungeons, her powers bound.” Emma said carefully, picking every single one of her words carefully and seeing all emotion fade off of Aunt Red’s features. Red was quiet a few long moments, then took a steadying breath.

“That is quite a story, Emma.” She finally answered, pained. 

“Is it true? Is that what happened? Baelfire already told me that my parents helped bring him back—was that the price my parents paid for Rumple to break his contract with the queen?” Emma pressed, and Red looked away again, obviously wishing she could be anywhere but here. Emma waited anxiously, wondering if her aunt was going to give her a straight answer; she looked conflicted enough to swing either way at the moment. When Red finally replied, her voice was careful.

“Perhaps this is something you should discuss with your parents…?” Red tried, and Emma sighed. Oh yes, that was going to work out perfectly. She was going to sit her parents down and ask them about what was probably something they felt very guilty over, and then they would ask who told her and she had to come clean about visiting Regina—about kissing her. That was not going to happen. 

“I can’t. Come on Aunt Red, you were there, right? You know what happened? Tell me. Is Jean right?” Emma pleaded, putting her tea away and taking Red’s hands in an attempt for sympathy. Red’s hands—still around the mug—were trembling slightly. 

“I was. Listen, cub, your parents always have good reasons to do what they do. They’re smart and they love you very much.” Red impressed upon her, and Emma knew that was as close to an all-out ‘yes’ she was going to get. She squeezed Red’s hands lightly and withdrew, taking another cookie.

"Okay, I know. I'm just... confused, I guess. Why make up this story that the Queen is dead? I could understand if it was just to the people, but wouldn't I like... inherit a prisoner one day? What were they going to do? Leave her to me in their will...?" Emma mused, unable to keep silent now she had a chance to air her heart and mind. Red pursed her lips, and Emma knew she couldn't answer without implicating her parents even further.

"Never mind..." Emma huffed in frustration before Red was forced to reply. She got up to relieve the jitters in her body and wobbled about on the spot, rocking on her feet as she observed the birds that had settled in the back garden. So, Regina's story was true. It wasn't that big of a lie, really, but the fact her parents had lied at all made Emma question everything else they had ever told her. Besides, what if the Ogre-thing this morning had gone completely sideways and they would both have been killed? How would she have found out about Regina then? Would she have at all? Would the staff just have dealt with it? Kept her fed and clothed somehow while Emma tried to rule the land? What other skeletons were hiding in the closet?

“Em?” Red’s voice was soothing, and Emma realized she had balled her hands into fists. She hadn’t even noticed getting _so angry_. Her nerves were completely shot. She dragged her eyes over to Red, who gracefully lifted herself up and closed the distance between them. Nothing scared a wolf, Emma thought with amusement, especially not a pissed off princess. When Red’s arms wrapped around her and pulled Emma’s stiff form into her, Emma let herself be pulled in reluctantly, needing only a few soothing tones and a hand that ran along her back in sure circles to break. The tears came without her consent, but she let them fall anyway, allowing her confusion, her anger, and her sorrow to pool in the drops that soon stained the cloth below. She burrowed more fully into Red’s neck and wrapped her arms around her aunt’s lithe frame, as always surprised by the muscle definition she felt. 

“Let it out, cub. It’s okay. I’ve got you…” Red whispered soothingly, and so Emma did, indulging herself a moment as she cried over not only Regina and the lie, but also the tension she had been holding in, her upcoming marriage, the stress picking a partner had caused her, and her doubts that one day she would make a decent enough Queen to replace her mother. Red just held her and let her cry. She didn’t ask questions like her mother did in the very rare event Emma cried in front of her, nor hug her in the way that her dad did, in which it was obvious he hoped she would stop crying soon. Red just held her and let her cry, and she didn’t judge Emma at all.

Once the tears faded a little, Red slid her hands down Emma’s arms and took a hand, letting the other travel all the way down the appendage before letting it fall. 

“Why don’t we go for a little walk?” Red suggested and Emma nodded, happy for the chance to focus on something physical while they talked. They left the garden by climbing over the back fence—something both did effortlessly—and picked their way through the trees like they did so often when Emma came to visit. It didn’t take long for the soothing atmosphere of the forest to settle Emma’s frayed nerves. Still holding Emma’s hand, Red eventually begun to talk.

“When I met your mother, she was in a bad place. The Evil Queen wanted her dead, she had only just managed to escape the Huntsman with her life, and she was completely alone. Her mother had died long ago, her father had recently passed away at the hands of what Snow assumed was an assassin, but was really her step-mother, and she had nowhere to go. Starving and frightened, she found her way to my granny’s cabin and I caught her trying to steal eggs. We took her in and she and I became fast friends. She helped me embrace my nature after we found out about my wolf, and she stuck with me when I killed Peter and when Anita died. Your mother went to bat for me, pardoned me for whatever crimes I had committed while I was not in control of the wolf and allowed me to live here, safely away from anyone who would see me harmed. After my grandmother, Snow—and your father and you, of course—are the most important people in my life.” Red’s voice was soft, and a soft smile lit up her face. Watching her from this side, Emma could almost forget about the scars that marred her aunt’s face.

“You were eight when the Uprising took place; the werewolves and their animal packs attacking villages and any wolf not allied with them… that was a hard time for me, Emma, for your parents as well. Before that time, I had found a way to co-exist with my late mother’s pack, but when they connected with the other packs, they turned against me and Granny. It was your mother who saved my life when the packs came for us—and she risked her own life by doing it. Do you remember I lived with you and your parents for a few months afterwards, while I was healing?” Red continued, and the pain in her voice was evident, even if she avoided direct mention of her grandmother’s death. 

“Yeah, I remember. Aunt Red… I know my mom is a good person. Seriously, I know. I know that whatever she did to Reg—the Evil Queen was because she wanted to, like, keep everyone safe. I just don’t get why she had to lie to me about it.” Emma sputtered, cursing herself for almost slipping on Regina’s name. She knew Red had noticed, because the woman had involuntarily squeezed her hand at the mention of the start of the Queen’s real name.

“Maybe she wanted to protect you a little longer, cub. A secret like that is hard to keep, even if you have people around you that you can trust.” The squeeze Red gave her hand this time was fully intentional. Emma huffed, but she couldn’t disagree with the assessment. Maybe it was just that… but why would her mom panic so badly over a story book if it was just about what happened eighteen years ago? Not realizing her mind had drifted far away from the pleasant walk, Emma spooked when Red’s voice cut through her thoughts.

“I think it’s time to tell me who ‘Jean’ is.” Her voice was gentle, but it was clear there was going to be no dispute. Emma was coming fully clean here, and while her heart pounded in her chest at the mere thought, it was a bit of a relief as well.

“Regina.” She let a pause fall, not so much for dramatic effect, but because she could not get her mouth to form around the next part. “The Evil Queen.”

Red didn’t react right away, instead they just walked, Red’s eyes ahead as Emma snuck glances of her through her hair. Red looked deep in thought, but seeing as Emma wasn’t being yelled at, she was happy enough about her aunt’s reaction.

“I’m not happy to hear that…” Red eventually said, and Emma bit her lip. “But you are still alive, unharmed, and do not seem enchanted, so I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt. Why don’t you start at the beginning this time?”

Emma did, she told Red everything up to the last visit, about the hatch, about revealing herself by spazzing out with the lamp, about running away. She told her about coming back to Regina, talking to her and hearing her tell her story. She told her aunt about the Swan Princess story, about hunting for the book, about Baelfire and the kiss they had shared and her expectations that she would be marrying him, and eventually, she also told her a little about the way Regina made her feel—sympathetic, confused, and intrigued. As always, Red listened almost silently, interrupting very rarely for a clarification on one of Emma’s ramblings. Once Emma fell silent, unable to formulate the next part, Red gave her space for a while. Their hands were sweaty now, but Emma didn’t want to let go; the human connection tethered her.

“What aren’t you telling me, Emma?” Red eventually questioned lightly, knowing her goddaughter well enough to know that the biggest reveal was always at the end. Emma looked up at her and fought her tears, biting her lip nervously. Did she dare? Could she spill the last of her secrets? She wanted to so badly, but it meant opening old wounds for Red and exposing something of herself that she hadn’t come to grips with herself—something that would surely make Red hate her. She couldn’t do it. Not now. She was too scared, too ashamed. She had felt so mature when she had kissed Regina, while they were talking battle plans… now she just felt small and empty. Heartbroken. 

“Could we… can I maybe… like… get back to it?” Emma asked softly, barely able to contain a sob. Red nodded understandingly and let go of her hand so she could wrap her arm around her, pulling her close as she walked. Emma rested her head against her aunt’s shoulder and sighed.

“Do you hate me?” She asked, the question burning on her mind and heart. Red pulled them to a stop and took a hold of her upper arms, capturing her eyes.

“Emma, I will never hate you. Not for talking to the Queen, not for whatever it is you still have to tell me, and not about not wanting to marry Baelfire.” Red impressed upon her.

“Was it that obvious?” Emma questioned, her voice small as she wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to offer herself a little comfort. Red pulled her into a long hug that Emma melted into, her arms wrestling free to wrap fully around her aunt. They breathed together, lost in the middle of the woods. At least that part of the secret was out.

“It was a little obvious.” Red mumbled into her hair, and Emma couldn’t help but smirk. 

“I’ll tell you soon.” She promised. “I just need a little bit of time to—”

“Of course, cub. I’m right here.” Red promised her as she ran her fingers through Emma’s hair gently, and Emma calmed herself, listening to the birds in the trees, feeling the wind play through her hair, and bouncing on the soft blanket of pine needles under her feet. Emma was safe, sheltered, and for now, she was accepted. She shivered at the thought that she still had a huge secret to share, but Red pulled her a little closer and pressed a kiss into her hair. Emma didn’t have to think about it for now; she could just marvel at feeling lighter, at having an aunt who loved her unconditionally. Once more, she realized how lucky she was. Maybe—maybe—everything would be okay in the end.


	15. Chapter 15

Emma spent most of the remaining daylight time on her knees in Red’s garden, fighting with weeds and laughing with her aunt. Almost effortlessly, Red managed to slip in little questions about Emma’s story, and Emma found herself giving details she had previously forgotten to mention or had been too scared or ashamed to admit to. They laughed about Emma’s spider stories, and Red listened with feigned nonchalance when Emma described touching Regina’s hand for the first time, looking into dark eyes filled with worry for her, and the jolt of electricity that had passed between them. Red regarded her curiously then, and blushing, Emma had buried herself in her work, falling silent. 

Red prodded her gently about Baelfire, about the kiss, about her feelings, and Emma tried to make sense of what she was feeling without bringing Regina into it. She tried to put into words how she wanted to do the right thing—marry, have kids—but that deep down it felt as if that was not her destiny. Bae was a wonderful man, and he made her laugh… but he was like family. Kissing him had been awkward and she had only done it because she knew her parents wanted her to. That was also why she would marry him once he asked—and he would ask, she clarified. Red had nodded at that, and said she agreed; that he would. Emma didn't tell her about Regina, even though her confession was burning on her tongue.

They made a strong and richly filled vegetable soup together, and talked about Red’s life, about the cottage, her garden, and her recent adventures during wolf’s time while doing it. At ease, Emma then asked the question she had wanted to ask ever since her own love life had become a discussion topic.

“Aunt Red…?” She started hesitantly, and Red looked up from chopping up the last of the winter carrots.

“Yes, cub?” She replied, a friendly smile on her lips, and Emma tried to find the courage to pose her question.

“Do you… do you ever get lonely? Out here? Without… you know…?” Emma tried, and Red laughed.

“Without a partner, you mean?” She questioned and Emma nodded, painfully aware that her aunt had not said ‘husband’ but had used a gender neutral pronoun. She went beet red in seconds, but her aunt didn't comment upon it. Red pondered the question a moment, expertly cutting up the potato Emma had peeled.

“Sometimes.” Red eventually admitted. “I still miss Peter very much, and I miss my pack, and Granny of course. As for love… romantic love… yes I miss that very much sometimes. The wolf is hard to look past for most, and I don’t go away from the cottage much. I might have done so before the Uprising, but after, people were—and are—even more afraid of me. It’s not safe for me out in the world, even though I fought against my own kind in the war. I still carry the wolf inside of me, and it shows.” 

Emma saw the quiet sadness flash over her aunt’s features, and she wished she could lift the burden from her Red’s strong shoulders. Her aunt deserved so much more, so much better, even though Red always impressed upon her that she was happy where she was.

“Have you ever been in love again…? After Peter?” She asked tentatively, and Red’s sadness transmuted into a wistful smile. 

“Once, but that was just a small crush on someone I stood absolutely no chance with.” Red admitted, and Emma smiled, leaning forward as she forgot the potato still in her hand. She liked seeing this softer side of her aunt. 

“Who was it?” She asked curiously, and Red looked at her a long moment, judging if she should or should not speak. Emma felt her eyebrows furrow into a confused look. The moment suddenly felt a lot heavier than before, and she suddenly questioned if she even wanted to hear the answer. Red took a deep breath, and Emma felt her heart spring into a gallop as she connected the dots a split second before Red spoke.

“Your mother.” Red admitted with a light smile, and Emma felt the blood drain from her features entirely as realization dawned on her. Red held her gaze as Emma put the puzzle pieces together fully, and when Emma started crying in light of the image that emerged, Red emptied her hands and rounded the table to pull Emma into a solid hug. Red did understand her, Emma realized. She had somehow managed to filter Emma’s emotional connection to Regina from the jumbled mess that had been her explanation, and Emma accepted Red’s admission for what it was: acceptance and understanding. She was not alone, she was _not_ a deviant: if her aunt had these types of feelings for women then Emma couldn't be all bad. Red was the most beautiful, brave, and honourable person she had ever met, and she was not a freak.

It took her long minutes to stop crying, and all the while, Red held her silently, rocking her a little as she stroked Emma’s hair. Once Emma calmed down a little, they abandoned dinner for a chair near the fireplace. Red sat down in it, and Emma sunk down at her feet, laying her head on Red’s lap without having to ask or be prodded. She let Red play with her hair, focusing on the sure motions as it was braided, unravelled and braided again in a different way or place. Someone playing with her hair had always soothed Emma, and today was no different. Before long, her body slumped more firmly into her aunt’s legs and she sighed softly whenever long nails scraped her scalp.

Red had told her once while they were sitting in a similar position that the wolf was placated whenever she did this, that the motions settled it. It was a pack thing, she had tried to explain and Emma had understood it on an instinctual level. Now, it had become their special _thing_ , and it was one of the best things about spending time with Red.

“Did you ever tell my mom?” Emma whispered, and Red sighed.

“No. I never dared to. She met your father before I realized how I felt about her and even if she hadn’t, I don’t think your mother would have seen a viable partner in me. She is still my best friend and I love her dearly, but I am very grateful my romantic feelings for Snow faded fairly quickly.” Red answered her equally softly, hardly fracturing the tranquillity of the cottage where only the fire made any sound. 

“So they did fade?” Emma asked hopefully. Red hummed her acknowledgment. 

“As I said, it was only a crush. Is that what you are feeling, Emma? That you have a crush on Regina?” She asked carefully, and Emma froze. Hearing her feeling be put into words by someone else was a shock to her system. The fingers in her hair continued to work, though, and soon she relaxed again. Exhaling deeply, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“I don’t know.” She said, but deep down she did know; it wasn’t just a crush. There was something between them that Emma knew would never fade like Red’s crush had. It was too strong, too sudden. Emma took a steadying breath and realized she should finally tell the rest of her story. 

“Baelfire told me—after the kiss—that there may be another war coming… that Cora may still be alive.” Emma said, and Red’s hands froze a moment before continuing their task.

“The E—Regina's mother? I thought Regina had killed her?” Red answered, and Emma frowned.

“Killed her? No, she pushed her through a magic mirror into another land and then brought her back before casting the curse that entrapped her. She was planning on killing her, maybe, but Cora was brought back already dead—or at least so Regina thought. She was wrong, though. You should have seen her, auntie… she was terrified but also kind of… hopeful? But then I told her about the war and she became so sad. She looked like she was losing her mom all over again and I hated myself for telling her.” Emma said softly, reliving the moment. Red scratched Emma’s scalp and she shivered.

“We talked about what Regina would do if she were Cora because I thought she might be able to get into her mother’s head, you know? She… we… we think that maybe the Uprising was Cora’s doing as well; a test case to see what kind of forces the Kingdoms could muster and how long it would take them to get there and all.” Emma rambled, and now she felt the whole of Red’s body tense under her. Regrettably, Emma lifted her head and sat up so she could look at her aunt. The pain that was on her aunt’s features was devastating, and once more, Emma felt like a terrible human being.

“Aunt Red…?” She asked softly, and slowly eyes filled with pain met hers. Emma smiled sheepishly, hoping it was comforting, and Red relaxed a little, taking a deep breath before swallowing down her sorrow.

“A test case… Granny died over a test case, my pack died over a test case… if this is true, Emma, then…” She trailed off, but Emma could hear the blood-lust in her voice, could almost see the wolf howling for revenge. 

“We’ll make her pay.” Emma promised solemnly, placing a hand on Red’s leg, a hand that was soon covered by one of Red’s. The two fell silent as their eyes met and held, and an understanding passed between them. War was a daunting prospect—a painful prospect—and one that was its own reason to be stopped… but from this moment on, it was personal. This was blood for blood, an eye for an eye, and one way or another, all the dead would be avenged. Red squeezed her hand.

“Regina wants to help. Well… she wanted to help.” Emma suddenly realized she had no idea if Regina would still want to do anything after… “We kissed. I kissed her.”

She had blurted out the confession, and Red’s eyes widened before narrowing.

“You did what?” She questioned, her voice landing somewhere between surprise and shock. Emma grinned sheepishly, but her emotions were in turmoil. 

“Yeah… as it turns out, Regina picked the lock to her cell door ages ago. She confessed to it and I went in; we had the talk about the Uprising in her cell. She has drawn on the walls—beautifully—and I was inspecting that when she came up to me. I think we could both feel it… I think we both felt it since that first touch. Suddenly we were so close and everything in me screamed that I should kiss her… and I did.” Emma admitted. Red squeezed her hand again and smiled a soft smile—a smile filled with sadness, regardless.

“How was it? Like with Baelfire?” Red asked, and Emma snorted, getting more comfortable. “No, Gods no… it was… magical. My heart was pounding and I couldn’t think. I just saw these… images in my head and I felt warm and tingly all over. It was amazing…”

Red smiled over Emma breathlessness and the faraway look in her eyes. There was a hint of pain there as well, though, and Emma wondered if it was over Emma’s predicament or her own.

“It was nothing like with Bae… with Bae I was thinking the whole time and analysing how it felt. With Regina… with Regina I just felt and it felt perfect; like that was what I should be doing every day.” Emma said happily, wistfully. Then the smile on her lips died. “…and then I realized what I was doing and who I was doing it with. I ran, I… I broke the kiss and ran and just left her there.”

Red sighed emphatically, and lifted Emma’s hand to place a kiss on it before pushing her godchild’s head down gently. Sighing, pushing back tears, Emma laid back down and closed her eyes against the world. 

“I got scared. I can’t… I can’t feel that way about her. I _shouldn’t_ feel that way about her.” Emma confessed, and Red hummed.

“But you do.” She assumed, and Emma felt the tears escape.

“I do. I want to... be near her, kiss her... I want to save her from that cell, run away with her and make her happy. I'm going crazy and I can't stop feeling this way...” She choked out. Red was silent for a while, working on her hair and letting her cry. When she eventually broke the silence, her voice barely reached over the soft pops and crackles coming from the fireplace. Emma halted her sobs so she could hear the words that hit her like bricks.

“Emma… I don’t want to give you advice that would hurt you but I feel I have to say that… if this is really what you want—if Regina is the person you chose, if you think she is your True Love… then you need to fight for her. You _can_ have her if you want to, but you have to be willing to give up everything. It’s not just that she is a woman, but she used to be the Evil Queen. Your parents won’t take kindly to this. I love Snow, but she has a very narrow view on life and love, and your father… well… he just wants the best for you, and he wants his little girl safe and happy. To get him on board, you must prove to him that Regina can give you that.” Red said softly, hesitantly, making Emma’s heart leap to her throat.

“This is ridiculous, Aunt Red… I’ve only known her for _days_. How can I be so… so in love with her…?” Emma questioned, giving voice to the mind-boggling truth with an exasperated sigh. Red chuckled at that.

“Cub, it took your parents seconds to fall in love with one another, and no one got any happier during the time they were fighting it. I helped your mother get through that, and if this is what you want—what you really, _really_ want...” Red trailed off a moment, but once she spoke again, her voice was clear. “If you are sure, then you have my full support. Whatever I can do… but on one condition: I get to meet her.”

“What?!” Emma shot up, a braid half-finished in her hair. Her eyes were about to pop out of her skull. The heart and mind that had started racing at the possibilities screeched to a heart at her aunt's request. 

“I want to see her for myself. You say she’s changed, fine, I trust your judgment, but I still want to talk to her. I understand you don’t want to take this to your parents yet, so I’m going to be your godmother and take up that responsibility. Tomorrow, I’m riding to the palace with you—from what you have told me about the impending war, I think it’s time I get involved in the discussion, regardless, so I would not be out of place. Tomorrow night, you are taking me through the passageway with you, you’re going to talk to her while I wait, and if you two decided that you want to fight for this, then I talk to her.” Red explained, her voice making it clear this was not a point to be debated. Emma gasped for breath a good few moments before sagging, deflated.

“Why are you doing this?” She asked, fully aware of the absurdity of her aunt _supporting_ a relationship with the former Evil Queen—a woman, a villain, a killer—whom she had just met. Red reached for her hands and squeezed them together between her own.

“You’ve changed, little cub. She’s changed you. Love does that… it makes you stronger, makes you wiser. You always were a fighter, but she gave you a purpose. Love is worth fighting for, Emma, and we don’t decide who we fall in love with. Love is the most powerful of emotions and it can be your greatest strength as well as your greatest weakness. If you fell for her as hard as I think you have, then you two were meant to be, and that is a fairy-tale I believe in. If it happened now, on the cusp of a war, then it happened for a reason. I don’t think it was an accident that you found the tunnel, or that you remembered the name ‘Odette’. I don’t think anything major that happens in the Kingdom is an accident and maybe you have your own story to write. With this set-up, it should be quite grand… and I will be there for every chapter of it.” Red pressed upon her, and as tears welled up in her aunt’s eyes, Emma stopped fighting hers. She pulled her hands free and threw them around Red’s neck, pulling her close.

“Thank you.” She whispered into her aunt’s soft hair. “Thank you.”

“Always, Em. I love you as if you were my own daughter. I’ll always want the best for you. If this is how your story starts, then I’m proud to have been there for it—for you.” Red answered her just as softly, and Emma pulled her closer.

“I love you, too.” She answered, her voice muffled, but Red heard her just fine. They remained like this a moment longer, soaking in each other’s presence, and then released each other, both wiping away tears and laughing a little.

“Alright, glad that is out.” Red joked, and Emma grinned, feeling lighter but at the same time, more tired than she had ever felt. “How about we finish making us something to eat, huh?”

Emma nodded and stood, following her aunt back to the kitchen table. They shared an emotional smile and consciously switched to a lighter discussion topic as they worked. Tomorrow was going to be quite the day, and after dinner and a quiet evening, Emma lay on her back next to Red who was already asleep and smiled into the darkness. She had some things to make right with Regina tomorrow, but the crushing despair was gone, lifted from her chest by her aunt’s support. 

There were other people who were attracted to women, other people who felt like she did—her aunt felt like she did. She was normal, not some deviant… and tomorrow, she was starting her adventure… with Regina, if she agreed… and deep down, Emma already knew she would because whatever it was between them, Regina had felt it too. It hadn’t been the isolation having her latch on to Emma, it hadn’t been revenge… what Emma had seen in Regina’s eyes was real, and it had been for her.

With her aunt's support, Emma didn’t care about gender now, nor about the age difference or Regina's shady past; Regina had suffered through eighteen years of brutal punishment, and she was done giving penance. She could prove her worth in the fight against her mother. That would be her redemption, and once the war ended, her parents would have no reason or right to reject their request for a happy ending—together. Emma was not marrying Baelfire; she was marrying Regina. Somehow. It was the dawn of a brand new day, and Emma couldn’t wait to start it.


End file.
